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COPYRIGHT DETOSrr. 




Kj^JU^A'^V^ZfL i/^AC^ ^i/-M.<yt^ 



One's Self I Sing 



AND 



Other Poems 



Elizabeth Porter Gould 

AUTHOli OF 

"A Pioneer Doctor, A Story of the Se'venties;" 

'^The Broivnings and America;" 

John Adams and Daniel Webster, as Schoolmasters; 

"Ezekiel C/iecver, Schoolmaster;" 

"Anne Gilchrist and fValt Whitman;" 

" Gems from Walt Whitman." 




Boston: Richard G. Badger 
The Gorham Press 
1904 






Copyright 1904 by Elizabeth Porter Gould 
All rights reserved 



Two Oooies »ftr(»'vp,n 

JUL 19 1904 
(1 OoDvrlffht Entrv 

niA^^ /C] _ I ^ 4- 
CLASS ft XXc. No. 

' COPY B 



PRINTED AT 

THE GORHAM PRESS 

BOSTON, U. S. A. 



' 2 *»• *«.•' 



^ TABLE OF COxNTENTS 

a 

- PAGE 

:^ I — One's Self I Sing i 

J Birth 

4- Childhood 
— Youth 

Labor 
Love 

Motherhood 
Sorrow 
Age 
Immortahty 

2 — Poems of Nature 23 

3 — Songs of the Months .... 49 

4 — Miscellaneous Poems 57 

5 — To Some Contemporaries . . . loi 

6 — Some Impromptus 133 

7 — Centennial Poems 139 

Manchester 
Fryeburg 



I 

ONE'S SELF I SING 



I 

BIRTH 

A spark of life. 
Out of infinite space and infinite light, 
Finds form on the earth. 
Trembling and clinging, 
Crying and sighing. 
Sleeping and growing, 
Reveal the new birth. 

A guardian angel 
Is singing its worth. 

II 

CHILDHOOD 

Coming into consciousness of light within, with- 
out, 
Grasping earth's new visions without a fear or 
doubt. 
Stumbling, rising, laughing, crying, 

Loving, trusting all, 
Dancing, singing, hoping, playing — 
Alive to every call. 
Happy childhood, 
God-blest childhood! 
Life beyond recall. 

Even guardian angel listens, 

Wonders, trembles, 
At what may befall. 

Ill 
YOUTH 

I 
I am dancing along. Just to live is a joy, 
I'm so happy and free. 

I 



I know not nor care what will tame or destroy, 

Life now satisfies me. 
Oh, there's naught like dear youth 

To reveal the glad truth 
That 'tis pure, healthful joy just to know and 
to be ! 

2 

Life immense. 

With passions intense, 
And appetites lying in wait. 

What shall the youth do — 

Succumb, or be true? — 
The angel stands by at the gate. 

One turns to the light of the unseeking self, 

Another is lost in the whirl. 
Oh, guardian angel, where now is thy power. 

Thy flag to unfurl? 

No action of angel of life or of death 

Can tumultuous youth save. 
Tis the light of each soul anchored to its own 
goal 

That causes the saint or the knave. 



IV 

LABOR 

I 

Heyday — work-a-day world ! 

My flag is unfurled ! 
To Labor I bring my hand and my heart, 
Adjusted to justice, to love, and to art. 

Heyday — work-a-day world ! 

My flag is unfurled! 
Come round me, dear comrades. 



A circle complete, 
Including all virtues for joy or defeat. 
For to Labor we offer the strength of our youth. 

The wisdom of age. 

Heyday — work-a-day world ! 

Our flag is unfurled ! 

2 

The labor of serving! 

Oh, who does not know 
'Tis the flower of loving — 

The life here below 
Which opens to blessings 

The angels bestow. 

The pleasure erf serving! 

Oh, who can forego 
Such fullness of being — 

The heart's overflow 
When born of the Spirit 

Its secret to know. 

3 

Give of thyself, 
And to thyself be true; 
And every day shall offer 
A wealth that is thy due. 

V 
LOVE 

I 

Oh ! ecstasy rare 

Comes down to share 
The heart that with human love trembles; 

While all on the earth 

Is crowned with new birth 
And everything heaven resembles. 



But grief and despair 

Have latent their share 
In hearts that with human love tremble, 

Since fires of love 

Enkindled above 
In frail earthen vessels assemble. 

Oh, ecstasy rare 
Comes down to share 
The heart that with human love trembles 
While all on the earth 
Is crowned with new birth 
And everything heaven resembles. 



How do I love thee? 

Oh, who knows 
How the blush of the rose 
Can its secret disclose? 

Oh, who knows? 

Why do I love thee? 

Ah, who cares 
Sound a passion he shares 
With the angels? Who dares. 

Yes, who dares? 

3 
Thine eyes are stars to hold me 

To love's pure rapturous height. 
Thy thoughts are pearls to lead me 

To truth beyond earth's sight. 
Thy love is life to keep me 

Forever in God's light. 

4 
His trembling heart on her bosom lay 
In ecstasy sweet. 



Such knowledge to meet, 
On the brink of a world known to sin and defeat, 
Caused the angel to open her eyes in surprise. 

Creations unsung 

By pen or by tongue, 

Came in visions to cheer. 
To the Holy of Holies they all entered in, 

God's secrets to hear. 

Loving, loving, ceasing never — 
*'God is Love," vibrating ever. 

5 

The kiss still burns upon my brow, 

That kiss of long ago. 
When in the flush of love's first hour 

He said he loved me so. 

Another burns yet deeper still 

The kiss of wedded bliss. 

When soul met soul in rapture sweet — 
Oh, pure love's burning kiss ! 

The third was laid away with him, 
A kiss for heaven's day, 
(O heart abide God's way) — 
When in the life beyond earth's change, 
Beyond these mysteries sad and strange, 
New life will spring from out the old. 
New thoughts will larger truth unfold, 
And love have endless sway. 

6 

If I were only sure 

He loves me still, 
As in the realms of beauteous space 
(Alas! so far from my embrace) 



He bides God's will, 
I could be more content to bear 
The bitter anguish and despair 

Which now me fill. 

If I were only sure 

He waits for me 
To join him in the heavenly realm 
(Oh, how the thought does overwhelm) 

When body free, 
I could the better bear my fate. 
As day by day I learn to wait 

In silent agony. 

O Father, in my doubt 
One thing is sure. 

That thou, all love, could'st ne'er destroy, 

(Death only is in earth's alloy) 
Such love so pure. 

As that which blessed our union here, 

The love which knew no change nor fear- 
Such must endure. 

7 
She gave one look, one piercing look. 

Drew back her anguished soul. 
Then murmured low, "O bitter hour ! 
But — God — forgive — the — whole — 

Forgive — " 
******* 

He gazed upon her lifeless face. 

He held her lifeless hand. 

Was this the form he once had loved? 
He did not understand. 

Once loved ? Yes, that was so. 

He'd loved since, one or two — 



Well, what was here a woman for, 
If not for man to woo? 

****** 

Alas for broken hearts and lives 
Of those who can but trust ! 
Alas for those who see no law 
But that of selfish must ! 

8 
Has Love come? 
Ah, too late! 
Already Death stands o'er me 
With hungry eyes that bore me — 
O cruel fate, 
That after all life's years 
Of sacrifice and tears, 
'Tis Death, not Love, that wins. 
But, stay! This message bear, 
Ere yet Death's work begins : 
*'In other realms earth's losses 
Will change from saddening crosses 

To love-crowned joy, 
Where Death shall have no mission. 
But Love his sweet fruition 
Without alloy." 

VI 

MOTHERHOOD 



Dream of loveliest beauty in thine hour of sleep, 
Darling baby mine. 

Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby. 
Catch the sweetest glimpses of the heavenly bliss, 
While the angels bless thee with a holy kiss. 

Lullaby, lullaby. 
So shall come the wakening of celestial power 



To beautify the ministry of baby's waking hour. 
Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby. 
Darling baby mine. 
Lullaby, lullaby, 
Lullaby. 



Darling baby Mildred, playing on the floor — 

I see! 
Creeping here and creeping there, 
Into mischief everywhere. 
Mamma's little pet and care — 

I see! 

Fearless baby Mildred, on her rocking horse — 

I see! 
Never slipping from her place. 
Joyous laughter keeping pace 
With a motion full of grace — 

I see! 

Thoughtful baby Mildred, papa's pet and pride- 
I know! 
Lighting up the passing days 
With such happy, winsome ways, 
Joy of household life that pays — 
I know! 

Tired baby Mildred, lovely eyes all closed — 

Sleep on ! 
Waking, heaven will be more near 
For the angels' presence here, 
Whispering secrets in her ear — 

Sleep on ! Sleep on ! 



8 



VII 

SORROW 
I 
Down the ages comes veiled Sorrow, 

Accompanied by Pain. 
To each soul she knocks in silence — 

Will she knock in vain ? 
Ah ! to those who will not see her, 

Will not lift her veil, 
They can only know Pain's visage, 

Only know his wail ; 
But to those who open to her, 
Nestle on her breast. 
She reveals her needed secrets, 
Gives her own deep rest, 

2 

Must I always look for sorrow 

On the morrow? 

Must I never have the hope 

That a life of larger scope 

Will before my vision ope ? 

Ah, 'tis true there is but sorrow 
On the morrow 

For the broken hearts that wait. 

Bearing secretly their fate. 

Yet the opening of the gate 
To the blessed heaven's morrow, 

When the aching, longing heart 
Shall be free from pain and sorrow, 

Comes before my tired eyes 

With a wondrous sweet surprise. 
******* 

But this joy is not for me, 
Not for me. 



Alas ! for my poor broken heart, 
With its poisoned arrow's dart, 
Without hope, alone, apart. 

3 

Why weepest thou, O dear one ? 

Do sorrows press? 
Beneath the weight of sorrow 

Is love's caress. 

Why joyest thou, O dear one ? 

Is love thine own? 
Ah ! 'neath love's deep rejoicing 

Is sorrow's moan. 

Indeed, all earth's great passions — 

Is it not so ? — 
Are circled in the shadow 

Of joy or woe. 

But why should we bemoan this? 

Could otherwise 
Truth's dazzling light be subject 

To mortal eyes? 

Could otherwise we enter 

The endless light. 
Beyond the shadowed circle 

Of mortal sight ? 



Somebody knows 
All the joy I feel ; 

Is there anything surer 
My pain to conceal? 

lO 



Somebody knows 

All the pain I hide ; 
Is there anything surer 

My heart to confide? 

VIII 
AGE 

I 

MIDDLE AGE 

I am marching along, full of work and of plan 

To alleviate wrong. 
With a heart full of love both to God and to man, 
And an arm free and strong. 
Oh, there's naught like mid-life 
Tb make sure without strife 
The beauty of progress through action and song, 

2 

OLD AGE 

I am living along, sitting down by the way, 

My work is all done. 
I have fought the good fight, known the full of 
each day. 

And true victory won. 
Oh, there's naught like old age 
To declare with the sage. 
Life ending on earth is but heaven begun. 

3 

AT life's setting 

Put your arms around me. 

There — like that. 
I want a little petting 

At life's setting. 
For 'tis harder to be brave 

II 



When feeble age comes creeping, 
And finds me weeping 
(Dear ones gone). 
Or brings before my tired eyes 
Sweet visions of my youth's fair prize 
Denied me then and ever. 



Left me alone ? No, never. 

For in God's love I nestled. 

While with deep thought I wrestled, 

Till all my busy life at length 

Was spent in giving others strength, 

In making others' homes more bright, 

In making others' burdens light. 

4 
But now, alone and weary, 
I am hungry 
For a human love's sweet petting 
At life's setting. 
Keep your arms around me, 

Kiss my fevered brow. 
Whisper that you love me — 
I can bear it now. 

Oh, how this does rest me 

Now my work is done! 
I've all my life loved others. 
Now I want love, dear one. 
Just a little petting 
At life's setting; 
For I'm old, alone, and tired. 
And my long life's work is done. 



12 



AN OLD MAN S REVERIE 

Blow breezes, fresh breezes, on Love's swiftest 

wing, 
And bear her the message my heart dares to sing. 
Pause not on the highways where gathers earth's 

dust. 
Nor in the fair heavens, though cloudlets say 

must. 
But blow through the valleys where flowers await 
To give of their essence ere yielding to fate ; 
Or blow on the hill tops where atmospheres lie 
Imbued with the health which no money can buy. 
But fail not, O breezes, on Love's swiftest wing 
To bear her the message my heart dares to sing. 

The breezes, thus ladened, sped on in their flight, 
As cradled in hammock, I sang in delight, 
On that blest summer day in the years long ago, 
When life was all sunshine and youth all aglow. 
The sweets of the valleys, the breath of the hills 
Were gathered — the best that our loved earth dis- 
tills— 
As, obedient still to my wish, on they flew 
To the home of my darling they now so well 
knew. 

Alas for the breezes, alas for my heart, 
Alas for my message, so full of love's art ! 
If only the breezes had followed their will, 
And loitered among the pure cloudlets so still, 
They'd have met a fair soul from the earth just 

set free, 
In search of their help for its message to me; 
The message my darling, with last fleeting 

breath. 
In vain tried to utter, o'ertaken by death. 

13 



The breezes, fresh breezes, have blown on since 

then, 
With messages laden again and again. 
As for me, I send none. I wait only their will 
To bring me that message my lone heart to fill. 
They'll find it some day in a light zephyr chase, 
For nothing is lost in pure love's boundless space. 

6 

GRANDMA WAITING 

(A True Experience.) 
''Still waiting, dear good grandma, for the blessed 

angel Death ?" 
"Yes waiting, only waiting to be borne across the 

sea, 
To the home my soul's been building all these 

years of mystery, 
Through ninety years and over now of deep and 

wondrous change, 
Wherein I've known the heights and depths of 

human feeling's range 
And tried to solve the problems old of human life 
so strange. 

You want to know my history, because I am so 
good? 

Ah, child, no human life can here be fully under- 
stood. 

You call me good, and what is more, a 'true and 
blessed saint.' 

(There is illusion sweet indeed in what you child- 
souls paint 

Before you know too much of life and feel its 
evil taint.) 

You even picture beauties of my home across the 
sea 

14 



Which I never dared to hope for in my hours 
of ecstasy. 

You see me sitting helpless here, blind now for 

many years, 
Apparently so full of peace, so free from doubts 

and fears. 
Though never free from Memory's thought which 

often brings the tears. 
And you wonder where's the passion and the 

energy of youth, 
The power that even dared to sway to evil ways 

forsooth. 
Ah, you but see the blessed fruit of what God 

planted sure, 
When in my vears of sorrow He was whispering, 

'Endure.' 
You cannot see the dreadful scars which naught 

on earth can cure. 
You cannot see the passion wild, when, 'neath the 

coffin lid, 
Among the flowers, my children three, my pre- 
cious all, were hid. 
Nor can you see my conflict sore, when I went 

almost mad 
Before the dying form of him who had loved 

me from a lad, 
A loving husband, kind and true, as ever woman 

had. 
But still, before my dear one died, more children 

came to me: 
Two lovely boys, who seemed at last a recom- 
pense to be. 
For sometimes it does seem as if God sends a 

special gift. 
To be a special help and strength, the selfish 

clouds to lift, 

15 



Or — what, perhaps, we need as much — the wheat 
from chaff to sift. 

Through all my lonely, widowed life I Hved in 
their sweet ways, 

And found no sacrifice too great in work for 
future days. 

At length they were my crowning joy. I'd come 
again to know 

The blessings of a married life — the happiest here 
below — 

When, lo! Death seized the oldest one, my boy 
that I loved so. 

This opened fresh the old deep wounds ; but still 
I had much left. 

For then I was not, as before, of every child be- 
reft. 

So on I went in daily life, determined to be true 

To blessings that were left to me. That does 
one's life renew. 

Remember this, my dear one, when your grand- 
ma's gone from you. 

The years went on. I felt I'd had my share of 
sorrow's pain. 

So I banished every lingering thought that Death 
could come again. 

But when we are the surest, child, 'tis then he 
seems to be 

More vigilant than ever to proclaim his mystery. 

As if he envied lis an hour of joy's sweet com- 
pany. 

My husband first was stricken down ; then came 
the added blow : 

Tv/o grown up sons, all settled with as fine a busi- 
ness show 

As ever comes to mortals, were cut down in 
prime of life, 

i6 



Having just begun to free me from the circum- 
stances rife, 

Which boded of the bitterness of poverty's dread 
strife. 

My soul was then so mystified, so dazed before 
God's will, 

That I could only find my voice in His calm 
words, 'Be still.' 

Oh, could I not been spared this stroke, known 
one less bitter pain, 

And been as good for duties here, as fit for heav- 
en's reign? 

Was this the way, the only way, eternal life to 
gain? 

It cannot be much longer. I shall soon have 

crossed the sea. 
To the home my soul's been building all these 

years of mystery. 
I've had my share of sorrow, but I've done the 

best I could. 
God knows I've tried through all to grow more 

patient, wise and good ; 
To get at least this out of life, as every mortal 

should. 
But, though I've had His comfort, and still hear 

His sweet 'Endure,' 
I feel the bitter heartache which no time or sense 

can cure. 
My friends have all been laid away, my work long 

since was o'er, 
And now I'm only waiting for Death's landing on 

the shore. 
I hope 'twill be at sunset when he knocks at my 

soul's door; 
For, somehow, it much easier seems to go the un- 
known way 

17 



Attended by the beauty of the sun's last glorious 

ray. 
But as I calmly wait and think, it does seem 

rather queer 
That what you 'blessed angel' call has seemed 

my chief curse here 
Alas ! how much we suffer before God's ways 

appear." 



IX 
IMMORTALITY 

I 
"Before Abraham was, I am" — 
The great Self cried. 
And Immortality was justified: 

"Because I live, ye live" — 
The great Love sang. 
And *'Man Immortal" down the ages rang. 

Immortal, unending, 
Unending, immortal. 
O Soul — ope the portal 
Thy Self to make free ! 

2 

Kind Nature sings through all our earthly way. 

There is no death ; 

All is the breath 
Of life that opens to an Easter da)- 

And Love sings, too, 'midst all the pain and strife, 

There is no death ; 

Hear what it saith? 
*'I am the Resurrection and the Life." 

i8 



O g^lorious song^ of Nature and of Love ! 

On, onward ring, 

Till all hearts sing. 
There is no death, 'tis life from God above. 

3 

Two old friends met on the city street. 
"Good morning," said he, 
"Good morning," said she. 
And they paused to talk together. 
The mysteries strange had come to both 

Since last they met ; 
And now they wondered more and more 
What it all meant, 
But as they parted, 
He slowly said, 
''Sometime, somewhere, somehow — 
Do not forget." 

The weeks went by in their busy lives. 
They met again in the rushing crowd ; 
They had only time to grasp the hand, 

As she sweetly said, 
''Somtime, somewhere, somehow — 

We'll not forget." 

Again and again have they met since then ; 
Their words grow few over mysteries strange ; 
But ''sometime, somezvhere, somehow'' — 
They never forget. 

4 
Transformed, redeemed from all that dwarfs or 

blights. 
In perfect harmony with beauteous sights 
Beyond imagination's highest flights 
Ere reached by seer, 

19 



We shall together walk the golden streets 
Sometime, my dear. 

But how, you ask, shall we each other know, 
So changed from what we were while here below 
When, caged like birds, we longed and suffered 



so 



Ah, do not fear. 
Will not the soul, when free, seek like the bird 
Its own, my dear ? 

It may not be at once or soon, 'tis true. 
For you may be among the blessed few 
Who'll sooner reach the blissful heights — your 
due 

For pure life here — 
But sometime, sure as God is love and truth, 
We'll meet, my dear. 

Some precious, long- forgotten look or word 
Breathed through the softest, sweetest music 

heard. 
Or some vibration rare of soul depths stirred 

By memory's tear. 
Will, like a flash of light, reveal our souls 

Together, dear. 
To live the fuller life we've dreamed of here. 

5 
One by one the dear ones leave us. 

Out of sight they go. 
And we wonder. Ah, we falter, 

At the mystery and woe. 
But the everlasting progress of the Spirit on the 

wing 
Leaves behind the word, Transition — 
Is not this comforting? 

20 



J 



6 

From shore unto shore we are paddled by Time 

In our Earth-born attire ; 
We drop it at last, we reach a new clime — 

Time never goes higher. 



21 






i 



II 

POEMS OF NATURE 



TO SUMMER HOURS 

DAY 

Trip lightly, joyous hours, 
While Day her heart reveals. 
Such wealth from secret bowers 
King Time himself ne'er steals. 
O joy, King Time ne'er steals ! 

NIGHT 

Breathe gently, tireless hours. 
While Night in beauty sleeps. 
Hold back the softest showers, — 
Enough that mortal weeps. 
Ah me, that my heart weeps ! 



UNANSWERED 

**Is that God's ribbon in the sky, 
To tie the worlds together?" 
A sweet child asked. 
On seeing Nature's rainbow belt 

Worn after rainy weather, 
"Or, is it some of heaven's light 
A-peeking through the floor, 
Or at an open door ; 
I wish I knew 
Don't you?" 

She paused a moment. 
Wondered, thought, 
Then, with a long-drawn sigh, 
Was heard the old, old cry, 
*T wish God told us more, 
Don't you ?" 

25 



IN HER GARDEN 

She picks me June roses. 

Were ever such roses? 
Their fragrance would honor 

The heavenly halls. 

She finds me pet pansies ; 

Such wondrous eyed pansies, 
And lovely nasturtiums 

That run on the walls. 

Sweet peas she's now bringing, 
While all the time singing. 

And I? Ask the flowers 
To tell what befalls. 



WHY NOT ! 

The waves are kissing the shore, 

And trees are seeking each other, 
The lake is aglow with the love of the sun. 
And rocks feel the kisses of trees they have won, 

Fresh breezes are sighing, 

And mated birds flying, 
Sweet flowers are opening their hearts to the bees 
While ivy is kissing the rocks and the trees. 

Fair clouds are coquetting 
In June's bluest sky — 

All Nature loves petting, 
Then why shouldn't I? 

At Lake Mohonk. 

26 



O RARE, SWEET SUMMER DAY 

''The day is placid in its going, 
To a lingering motion bound. 
Like a river in its flowing — 
Can there be a softer sound ?" 

— Wordsworth. 
O rare, sweet summer day, 
Could'st thou not longer stay ? 
The soothing, whispering wind's caress 

Was bliss to weary brain. 
The songs of birds had power to bless 
As in dear childhood's reign. 

The tinted clouds were free from showers, 

The sky was wondrous clear, 
The precious incense of rare flowers 

Made sweet the atmosphere; 
The shimmering haze of mid-day hour 

Was balm to restlessness. 
While thought of silent hidden power 

Was strength for helplessness — 

O rare sweet summer day, 

Could'st thou not longer stay ? 

A TRUE VACATION 
(In a hammock.) 

''Cradled thus and wind caressed," 
Under the trees. 
(Oh what ease) — 
Nature full of joyous greeting; 
Dancing, singing, naught secreting; 
Ever glorious thoughts repeating — 

5f: * * ^ * * 

Pause, O Time, 
Tm satisfied ! 

27 



Now all life 
Is glorified ! 
Wenham, Massachusetts. 

AT FAIRFIELDS, WENHAM, 1890 

Buttercups and daisies, 
Clover red and white, 
Ferns and crown-topped grasses 
Waving with delight. 
Dainty locust-blossoms, 
All that glad June yields. 

Welcome me with gladness 
To dearly-loved 'Tairfields." 
But where's my happy collie dog, 
My Rosa? 

The orioles sing greeting. 
Gay butterflies come near. 
The hens cease not their cackling. 
The horses neigh, 'T'm here," 
The cows nod 'T have missed you," 
The pigs' eyes even shine. 
And from the red-house hearthstone 

Comes pet cat Valentine. 
But where's my happy collie dog, 
My Rosa ? 

I miss her joyful greeting, 
Her handsome, high-bred face. 
Her vigorous, playful action 
In many a fair field chase. 
Not even lively Sancho 
Can fill for me her place. 

O Rosa, happy Rosa, 
Gone where the good dogs go, 
Dost find such fields as ''Fairfields," 
More love than we could show ? 

28 



ON OLD MONHEGAN'S ISLE 

Lying on the trailing yew 

On old Monhegan's isle, 
With the rock-bound surf in view, 

Playing all the while 
With the freedom and the joy 
Nature gives without alloy — 
Who would miss it 
Oh, who would, 
Lying on the trailing yew 
Underneath the arch-sky blue ! 

And if to this blest wealth I add 

A thought of you, 
All of life becomes more clear. 
Old Monhegan's isle more dear 
And a life beyond more near — 

Who would miss it 

Oh, who would, 
Lying on the trailing yew 
Underneath the arch-sky blue ! 

— 1901. 

THE WEIRD FOG-BELL 

The solemn knell of the weird fog-bell, 
Sounding clear on the air, now far, now near. 
Hath a music's spell, as it rings and sings, 

''Beware — take care. 

Take care — beware ;" 
It voices the depth of old Neptune's soul. 
As over his face the mist-veils roll, 

"Take care — beware, 

Beware — take care ;" 
And strengthens our faith in a hidden power 
As it sings, ''All's well/' in the clouded hour. 

29 



"All's well on the ocean's swell, 
All's well— All's well." 



BLOSSOM-TIME 

Blossoms floating through the air, 
Bearing perfumes rich and rare. 
Free from trouble, toil and care. 

Would I were a blossom ! 

Robins singing in the trees, 
Feeling every velvet breeze, 
Free from knowledge that bereaves. 
Would I were a robin ! 

Violets peaceful in the vale, 
Telling each its happy tale, 
Free from worldly noise and sale. 
Would I were a violet ! 

O sweet day of needed wealth. 
Full of Nature's perfect health. 

Fill me with thy power. 
Then like blossoms I shall be. 

Wafting only purity. 
Or like robins, singing free 
'Midst the deepening mystery. 
Or like violets, caring naught 
Only to reflect God's thought." 

TO A BUTTERFLY 

O butterfly, now prancing 

Through the air. 

So glad to share 
The freedom of new living, 
Come, tell me my heart's seeking. 

30 



Shall I too know 

After earth's throe 
Full freedom of my being ? 

Shall I, as you, 

Through law as true, 
Know life of fuller meaning? 

O happy creature, dancing. 

Is time too short 

With pleasure fraught 
For you to heed my seeking ? 
Ah well, you've left me thinking: 

If here on earth 

A second birth 
Can so transform a being, 

Why may not I 

In worlds on high 
Be changed beyond earth's dreaming ? 



A QUESTION 

Is life a farce ? 

Tell me, O breeze. 
Bearing the perfume of flowers and trees, 

While gaily decked birds 
Pour forth their gladness in songs beyond words, 
And cloudlets coquette in the fresh summer air 
Rejoicing in everything being so fair — 

Is life a farce ? 

How can it be, child. 

When Nature at heart 
Is but the great spirit of love and of art 
Eternally saying, 'T must God impart." 

Is life a farce? 
Tell me, O soul, 

31 



Struggling to act out humanity's whole 

'Midst error and wrong, 
And failure in sight of true victory's song ; 
With wisdom and virtue at times lost to view, 
And love for the many lost in love for the few 

Is life a farce? 

How can it be, child, 

When humanity's heart 
Is but the great spirit of love and of art 
Eternally crying, "I must God impart." 



AMONG THE PINES 

Far up in air the pines are murmuring 
Love songs sweet and low. 
With a rhythmic flow, 

Worthy of the glad sun's glow. 

The airy clouds are o'er them bending, 

Captured by the sound 

Of such pleasure found 
In a playful iaily round. 

The birds pause in their flight to listen, 
Wondering all the while 
How the trees can smile 

Rooted so to earthly guile. 

The hush of summer noon enwraps them 
Perfumed from below 
By the flowers that show 

They, too, murmuring love songs know. 

AH nature finds a joy in loving — 
Oh, that I could hear 

32 



Love songs once so dear 
Death has hushed forever here ! 

Intervale Woods, North Conwav. 



BY THE ANDROSCOGGIN IN A MOMENT 
OF DOUBT 

The river is steadily seeking the sea 

In waves of delight, 

While I have lost sight 
Of the haven of rest that was open to me. 

The mountains are pointing to heaven's clear light 

With unceasing praise, 

While I all the days 
Am struggling in darkness to do what is right. 

O river, if thou know'st the burdens I bear, 

The doubt and the pain 

Which hide heaven's gain, 
Let me of thy faith and delight have a share. 

And ye, too, O mountains, if round me ye see 

The way narrowed in 

Spite of struggle within. 
Lift me to the height oi your life calm and free — 
So shall river and mountains be messengers here 

To guide and to cheer. 

THE PRIMROSE 

Who tells you, sweet primrose, 'tis time to wake 
up 

After dreaming all day? 
Who changes so quickly your sombre green dress 

to the yellow one gay, 
And makes you the pet of the twilight's caress, 

33 



And of poet's sweet lay ? 
Who does, primrose, pray? 

The primrose, secure on his emerald throne 

Looked up quickly to say, 
*'A dear lovely fairy glides down from his throne 

In the sun's golden ray. 
And with a sweet kiss opens wide all our eyes, 

Saying, 'Now is your day.' 
And lo! when he's gone we are filled with surprise 

At our wondrous array, 

So fresh and so gay. 
Do tell us the name of this fairy, I pray. 
Who gives of his beauty, and then hies away 

Without thanks, without pay. 

Does he linger your way ?" 



JOY, ALL JOY 

Lying on the new-mown hay, in a sightly field, 

On a summer day, 

With no care to weigh. 
Or a bitter thought to stay all that sense might 
yield — 

What a joy to have alway ! 

Sky as blue as blue can be, perfect green all 
round, 

Birdlings on the wing 
Ere they pause to sing 
On the top of bush or tree, or on sweet hay- 
mound — 

Restful joy in everything! 

Butterflies just come to light, proud of freedom'? 
hour. 

Cows in pastures near, 

34 



Wondering- why I'm here, 
Chipmunks now and then in sight, bees in clover- 
flower — 

O what joy when these appear! 

Happy children far and near climbing loads of 
hay, 

Running here and there. 
Farmer's work to share, 
Skipping, shouting loud and clear, full of daring 
play— 

Children's joy ! Joy every where ! 

AT THE FOOT OF MOUNT HOLYOKE 

A mountain hides within itself 

This message grand and true, 
Which at my bidding came to-day 

For me to give to you : 

''Drink deep of Nature's sweetest life 

While learning how to wait. 
Stand strong against the tempest's strife. 

Not questioning the fate. 
Then shalt thou live above the din 

Of petty things below. 
Absorbing depths of life within, 

The future to o'erflow." 

THE GRAND CANON OF THE YELLOW- 
STONE 

Earth teems with glories. 
The works of nature and of man 

Tell old, old stories. 
But in these latter days there comes to view 
A wonder never seen before ; 

35 



A wonder more and more 
To make America known the whole world 
through. 

It is the priceless gem of her great park, 
The Canon of the Yellowstone! 
Its coloring, John of Patmos might leave Heaven 
to see ; 

Its wondrous outline, Michael Angelo. 
No finer setting ever crowned a river's flow 
. If human or poetic life give added glow, 
Then Hudson or the Rhine. 
But knowing Merced's grandeur, 
Columbia's beauteous sides. 
The Royal Gorge of Arkansas, 
And those Alaska hides, 
The Canon of the Yellowstone, 
Bright with its rainbow hue. 
Stands out sublimest of them all. 
For earth and heaven to view. 

It is a national glory. 

Born not of song or story. 
But out of nature's large and generous heart 
Like grand Niagara, it is the people's own. 
Unique, alone; 

Their badge of beauty and of constancy. 

In the Yellowstone Park, 1893. 



BEFORE THE TAKU GLACIER, 1893. 

What art thou, O gem of Alaska's fair clime ? 
A beauty defying 
The footstep of Time ? 

36 



And who was thy sculptor? The hand of the 
years, 

Each telHng a story 
Of smiles and of tears? 

What gives thee thy color? The heaven's own 
blue 

Coming down to caress thee 
And leaving its hue? 

And who are thy polishers ? Nymphs of the sea 
In love with the glory 
Of dancing on thee? 

How freely they throw the rough edges away 
To the care of Old Neptune. 
(It thunders, we say.) 

And how he then tosses them up into place 
As full-fledged, fair icebergs 
Reflecting his face ! 

O Taku, rare gem on America's breast, 
Thou hast opened thy beauty — 
With God be the rest ! 

*While the Muir glacier was the grander, the 
Taku seemed to me more a gem of beauty. 

— E. P. G. 



ON A MULE ON THE NEVADA TRAIL IN 
THE YOSEMITE VALLEY, 1893. 

O patient little creature 

Would that thou too could'st see 

This grandeur and this glory, 
Now so revealed to me. 

37 



The Merced River dancing, 

In wild, perpetual glee. 
While rugged mountains guard it 

In silent majesty. 

The glorius Falls of Vernal, 
Nevada's beauteous veil — ■ 

O faithful mule, is't possible 
Thou can'st see but the trail? 

Can'st not uplift thy being 
To God in conscious praise, 

And know the untold rapture 
Of catching heaven's rays ? 

Yet 'tis through thy devotion 
I reach Yosemite's heart, 

And feel the sweet baptism 
Her wondrous Falls impart. 

For all thy faithful service. 

Perhaps some day thou'lt climb 

A trail of heavenly beauty 
Beyond the trails of time. 

Till then I can but wonder. 
If heaven itself will show 

A trail of wilder grandeur 
Than this, earth does bestow! 



CONSCIOUS OR UNCONSCIOUS? 

The shock of earthquake, thunder's roar, 

Weird lightning's vivid chain. 

The strength of ocean, deluge's pour, 

And wildest hurricane; 

Are moods that Nature loves to show 

38 



To us who boast our birth 

Fron conscious force she could not know 

Because denied soul-worth. 

But is it true she does not share 
A knowledge in God's plan ? 
Must not she His own secret bear 
To so touch soul of man? 
Those who deny this see not clear 
Into the heart of things; 
For how could otherwise God here 
Reveal His wanderings? 



ON MOUNT WASHINGTON. 
(To my Mother.) 

On highest point of Washington's grand peak 
I humbly stood. A perfect day and night 
Had filled my being with that pure delight 

Felt by the saints when holy angels speak. 

"O Father," cried I, 'Thee alone, I seek 
To make me worthy of this glorious height ! 
May every soul's horizon be as bright, 

As broad, free from the petty and the weak." 

So, on Truth's highest rock we sometimes stand 
In ecstacy. The beauteous peaks of love 
Reveal the glories of a broader life, 

A fuller joy, unknown to lower land. 

'Tis then our quickened prayers find light above 
To flower in deeds upon a world of strife. 

1892. 

39 



ON JEFFERSON HILL. 

(Before the Presidential Range.) 

The sovereign mountains bask in sunset rays, 

The valleys rest in peace ; 
Soft, lingering clouds melt into twilight haze, 

And birds their warbling cease ; 
The villager's hour of welcome sleep is near. 

Lone cattle wander home. 
While, wrapped in summer-scented atmosphere. 
Calm Evening comes to roam. 
With gentle pace 
Through star-lit space. 
Till moon-kissed Night holds all in her embrace, 
And Morning waits to show her dawn-flushed 
face. 
1899. 

ON LAKE MEMPHREMAGOG. 

By old Owl's Head on Memphremagog's side, 

In hammock-nook 'midst scenery wild and 
bold. 

The spirit of the waters, as of old. 
Broods o'er my soul, its secrets to confide. 
It whispers of the anguish, joy and pride. 

The heart of man has on its bosom told ; 

And hails as conqueror Him who once did hold 
Its heart in peace when tempest-tossed and tried. 

Loved spirit of the waters, we too hail 

The power of Him who walked the holy sea 
Of Galilee. Capacity to fail 
Were harder to believe than victory. 
May He who conquered wildest Nature's heart 
His infinite power and rest to us impart ! 

40 



A GREETING FROM THE ADIRONDACKS 
TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

Old Whiteface and Marcy forget not the Hills 
Reclining on New Hampshire's breast, 

They send their fair cousins a greeting that fills 
The atmosphere Summer has blest. 

They pity them, though, for the lack of the gems 
Which sparkle and gladden their eyes — 

The beautiful lakes, each one a true lens 
Reflecting the forests and skies. 

But do they not in their wise moments confess 
They would of their dearest dispose, 

If they to their time-honored bosom could press 
The Face that the White HiFs disclose? 

For when all is said of the mountains of earth 

That open their secrets to men. 
Is there anything fraught with more wonderful 
birth 

Than the Face of the White Mountain glen— 

The Face of the ages, from Nature's own hand 

Proclaiming the secret profound, 
That the fullest creation on sea or on land 

Must be with humanity crowned ? 

But while Mother Nature is seeking her end 

From age unto age for mankind, 
Her mountains continue their greetings to send. 

Each bearing the other in mind. 

So Whiteface and Marcy forget not the Hills 
Reclining on New Hampshire's breast, 

They send their fair cousins a greeting that filh 
The atmosphere Summer has blest. 

Lake Placid, New York. 
41 



THE OCEAN'S MOAN. 

Last night the ocean's moan was to my ears 
The deep sad undertone of vanished years, 
Bearing a burden, 
A bhss unattained, 
A strife and a longing, 
A Hfe sad and pained. 
To the shores vast and free 
Of eternity's sea. 

But in that undertone of restless pain. 

Came at length a mouotone of sweet refrain, 

Bearing a passion 

Long known to the sea — 

Told in moments of silence 

A sad heart to free — 

To be borne me some day 

In the ocean's own way. 

And this rare monotone of mystery 
Was now that passion-moan of secrecy. 
Bearing, *T love her, 
My moaning ne'er'll cease 
Till she on my breast 
Findeth love's perfect peace; 
Till she on my breast 
Findeth love's perfect rest." 

Oh, is there tenderer tone for mortal ear, 

Than such a monotone, distinct and clear. 

Bearing its comfort, 

Its heavenly peace. 

Its help for all sorrow. 

Its heart-pain release, 

To a soul waiting long 

For love's tender, true song? 

42 



And now the ocean's moan is to my ears 

The dearest undertone of all the years, 

Bearing a memory, 

A sweet bliss attained, 

A gratified longing, 

A life's joys regained, 

To the shores vast and free 

Of eternity's sea. 

MY RELEASE. 

I hear in the ocean's restless moan 
My soul's lament. 
Will it ever cease? 

I feel in the rumbling earthquake's groan 
Deep anguish spent. 
Shall I now know peace? 

I see in the smallest heaven's loan 
Enough for content — 
^ut is that release? 

O no! 

My release is but found in the pure undertone" 

Coming nearer and dearer to me, 
Of a great human love beyond Nature at best 
Eternal, inspiring, and free. 
Oh, that's my release. 
Happy me, happy me ! 

OLD OCEAN SPEAKS. 
JN BEHALF OF 'OLD IRONSIDES.' 

I have seen the great battles of freemen. 
Of pirates and slaves of the world ; 

I have felt for the victor and vanquished, 
For the flag that was furled and unfurled. 

43 



I have laid in my graves, "always ready" 
Yet "unshovelled" — as some of you say — 

The bravest and best of the ages ; 

Ah ! who are more honored than they ? 

For the calm of my depths and the silence 
Hold them safe in my memory's hall — 

The patriots, heroes, and sailors 

Who have answered the last bugle call. , 

I have loved the strong ships that have battled, 
I have had my own ''pets," as you say ; 

Among them was old Constitution 
Who went out from your Boston Bay. 

''Old Ironsides," one of you called her, 
In the days when she needed your aid ; 

''Fair Ironsides," will the world name her 
When anew on my breast she is laid. 

For again in her old regal splendor 

She will shine, not as war's love and pride, 

But as trophy of thrilling past glory 
And the keeping of peace by your side! 

Boston, Mass., 1901. 

THE MOUNTAIN LAUREL 

Dedicated to the Massachusetts Floral Emblem 
Society, Mrs. Ellen A. Richardson, President and 
Foimder, and read before the Boston Branch, 
Feb. 7, 1903. 

The Daisy and the Daffodil, 

And others we might name. 
Are ever blooming fair in Art 

And Poetry's domain. 

44 



But now to guide our old Bay State 

And bring her into line 
With those who gladly show their choice 

That all may thus combine, 

The Mountain Laurel comes out clear, 

Clothed in a living green. 
With face upturned to sun and shower — 

Born not "to blush unseen." 

A native of America, 

It has a natural claim. 
While, borne in love to other lands, 

It wins enduring fame. 

Linneus named it Kalmia, 

For Peter Kalm, whose praise 

First made its value known to him 
In eighteenth-century days. 

As Spoonwood to the Indians, 

It has historic lore. 
As Kalmia Latifolia, 

It opens Science' door. 

As member of the family Heath, 

It has a sisterly claim 
On our first love — the Mayflower — 

Which bears that family-name. 

Its clear-cut beauty stands out well 

To artist eye and hand. 
While spoons made from it, as of yore. 

Our homes may yet demand. 

It blooms for Independence Day 
And other days we prize, 

45 



When patriots seek the emblems dear 
Their thought to symbolize. 



Mountain Laurel ! 

Its tinted beauty, 

Its generous bloom, 
Oh, who does not love it ? 

Oh who can forbear 

On summer-day fair 
To follow its winding on road or hill-side, 
And find in its symbols the thoughts that abide ! 

Its name is a glory — 

It hints the old story 

Of victor and gain ; 
The Laurel, not only to crown our endeavor 

But daily to reign. 
While Mountain, inviting to visions which ever 

Grand beauty retain, 
Suggests a stability progress can never 

Defy or disdain. 

Stand out then as emblem for old Massachusetts 

Oh blest rugged flower! 
An emblem of peace to lead onward and upward 

To beauty and power ! 
So shall fair Mountain Laurel be loved by us all 
As its proud name is honored in the states' floral 
call! 



CHILDREN'S DAY 

When summer reveals her joy and rest. 
And beautiful flowers deck nature's breast. 
The ''Children's Day" of all the days 
Calls forth our song of praise. 

46 



Refrain — 

For like the birds we love to sing, 
And with the flowers our incense bring, 
To bless the homes and hearts of earth 
Like Him who srave us birth. 



fcs' 



The mountains reflect the summer light, 
And valleys are decked in green and white, 
The meadows and fields with new life glow, 
Forgetting winter snow. 

Refrain — 

And like the birds we love to sing, 
While with the flowers our incense bring, 
To bless the homes and hearts of earth. 
Like Him who gave us birth. 

How like are our hearts to gardens fair. 
All needing the wisest love and care! 
But if with the flowers we seek His light 
Our lives will know no blight. 

Refrain — ■ 

Then like the birds we love to sing, 
And with the flowers our incense bring. 
To bless the homes and hearts of earth 
Like Him who gave us birth. 



THE CHILDREN'^ OFFERING 

1 lie air is full of melodies that spring 

From Nature's heart to-day, 
And gladly we our youthful voices bring 

To swell the choral lay. 

47 



Refrain — 

To Him who gives our happy childhood days 

These precious, joyous hours, 
We hft our loving hearts in grateful praise 

While off'ring Nature's flowers. 

Her woods and fields have wakened out of sleep, 

Her trees are clothed in green ; 
The waters even of the mighty deep 

Reflect the summer sheen. 

Refrain — 

To Him who gives our happy childhood days 

Those precious, joyous hours, 
We lift our loving hearts in grateful praise 

While off'ring Nature's flowers. 

Glad birds pour forth a melody of song, 

The rivers run in glee, 
And from their hidden bowers the fairies throng 

Delighted to be free. 

Refrain — 

To Him who gives our happy childhood days 

These precious, joyous hours, 
We lift our loving hearts in grateful praise 

While off'ring Nature's flowers. 



48 



Ill 

SONGS OF THE MONTHS 



JANUARY 

January, shivering, knocks at the door ; 

Her arms full of blessings from Time's winter 

store. 
She holds in her keeping the full-freighted days 
With long, friendly evenings of love and of 

praise, 
And all the wild frolic of grave Winter's ways. 

Brave month of the twelve, 
We welcome you here, 
To open the way 
For our Happy New Year ! 



FEBRUARY 

Ho'W our pensive February loves the winter 

scenes ! 
How fresh she keeps dear January's snows and 

evergreens ! 

Her beads she counts, and each four years, 
She finds there're twenty-nine. 
'Tis then she cries, 
With laughing eyes, 
''Now for the fun that's mine! 
Leap year parties, 
Sweet surprises. 
E'en proposal 
At girl's disposal. 
For there're twenty-nine ! 
Heigh-ho — 
Twenty-nine !" 



51 



MARCH 

Blustering March comes in excited after Winter's 

chase : 
Having caught her, he has left her here with us 

a space. 
As Spring's daughter we should love her, though 

her changing face 
Hints of stormy passions leaving here and there 

a trace. 
But how glad we are to have her show us in her 

way, 
How the glorious Resurrection sings the first 

spring lay ! 



APRIL 

Tearful April, 

What's the matter? 

Has March been too rough, 
Spoiled the seeds and torn up roots, 
Nipped the budding shoots? 

Be not troubled, you have flowers 
Full of sweet delight. 

How we love to watch their colors 
Coming into light! 

They, perhaps, first sang the rhyme, 
— Who can tell — 
''April showers 
Make May flowers — " 
Oh, the glad spring-time! 



52 



MAY 

Sweet, open-eyed May, 

Rising up from her sleep, 

Looks out into space, 

(Ere showing her face) — 

And catching the glory 

Of life ever new, 

Turns gladly to show us 

The beauteous hue ; 
And lo ! life for us is seen in new light. 
While Nature herself finds a joy in the sight. 



JUNE 

When June comes in sight decked in bridal array, 
All the glorious hosts of night and of day 
Bow down to her beauty and yield to her sway. 

Her scent-laden breath makes the atmosphere 
sweet ; 

New flowers spring up at the touch of her feet ; 

And birds catch the sound of her happy heart- 
beat. 

O Queen of the months, 
Nature's pet of the year ; 
Why go out of sight — 
Can'st thou not linger here? 



53 



JULY 

In the fair arms of Summer 

Comes languid July, 

With a smile and a sigh. 

The sun is her mistress, 

The ocean her toy, — 

How gladly she tosses a vacation joy ! 

AUGUST 

How August loves her ease ! 
She sits in fleeting splendors, 
With wealth that Summer renders, 
Lost in sweet reveries. 
Soft atmospheres surround her ; 
Creation glows around her — 
Still-life is on its knees! 

SEPTEMBER 

Diana of the months, 
September ! 

The crown that summer left her 

She gaily throws away 

For Autumn to look after ; 

While day by day, 
With eager eyes she follows hunt and chase, 
And offers all her arrows to speed the race ! 

OCTOBER 

October is more serious ; 
She stoops herself to share 
The burden and the worry 
Of gathering wheat and tare ; 
And when she sees earth's storehouse 
Being filled with harvest gain. 
Her smile makes Indian summer, 
Her flush tints mount and plain! 
54 



NOVEMBER 

November, lone and dreary, 

(Of whom we sometimes weary); 

Hides all her charms 

In Winter's arms. 
But how she loves 
The lingering days ; 
The trust that nature gives her ! 

For on her breast 

The seedlings rest — 
Trees bare themselves before her ! 



DECEMBER 

Holly-crowned December ! 
Her face is still reflecting 
The glory of the child 
She on her bosom bore. 

Her secret lies 

In children's eyes — • 
They know her glistening jewels. 

They love to trace 

Her outlined face. 
And fan to flame her fuels ! 



55 



IV 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



DON'T WORRY 

Why shadow the beauty of sea or of land 

With a doubt or a fear ? 
God holds all the swift-rolling worlds in His 

hand, 
And sees what no man can as yet understand, 

That out of life here, 

With its smile and its tear. 
Comes forth into light, from Eternity planned, 

The soul of good cheer. 
Don't worry — 

The end shall appear. 

DON'T HURRY 

Why shadow the calm of the progress of time 

With the hurry allure? 
The march of the ages of action sublime. 
Though hindered by discord, the ache, and the 
. climb, 

Is steady and sure, 
With its watchword, Endure. 
And the heart of the world is attuned to the 
rhyme 

That the angels assure. 

Don't hurry — 
In His calm lies the cure. 



EBB AND FLOW 

There's an ebb and a flow in the heart of the 
world, 

Then why not in ours? 
There's a height and a depth in the thought of the 
world. 

Then why not in ours ? 

59 



An ebb and a flow 

In the tide of all being, 
A height and a depth 

In the thought of all seeing, 
A heavenly glow 

In the life that is fleeing 
To glad resurrection 

As crown of full being — 
Can we here ask for more 
Of Eternity's store? 
Rome, Italy. 

DRIFTING 

Drifting, drifting out to sea, 

Alone, alone. 
Fills the trembling soul with thought of life's im- 
mensity. 

Drifting, drifting out to sea, 
Alone with thee, 
Lifts the blissful soul to light of love's eternity. 

Drifting, drifting out to sea. 
Alone with God, 
Crowns the deepening soul with sight of immor- 
tality. 

TICK ON, LITTLE CLOCK 

Tick on little clock, 

As I think of the day 

When Time gave unquestioned 

My wish and my way ; 

But now I am pausing. 

As onward I go, 

To ask for his secret, 

60 



His mission to know. 
Can'st tell me, O keeper 
Of each moment's stay 
What is it — this secret — 
That holds the heart's sway? 

I listen in vain, 
I only can hear 
The little clock ticking 
Its own word of cheer: 
**Be faithful and steady. 
In love with the best. 
That's all that Time tells me 
We must wait for the rest." 



A CHRISTMAS SONG 

The heart of Nature feels the touch of love ; 
And angels sing, 
"The Child is King. 
See in his heart the life we live above." 

And through the ceaseless joy and pain of earth, 
The song rings on ; 
''The Christ is born, 
O, rise through Him to life of heavenlv 
birth." 

Ring on, sweet song of rare and wondrous power ! 
Till every ear 
The song shall hear. 
And Christ as King shall reign through every 
hour. 



6i 



A MAGDALENE'S EASTER 

In the different mansions of heavenly space 

Prepared for the faithful and pure, 

(Ah me, for the faithful and pure!) 
Can I dare hope to find e'en a small resting place 

Free from sin and all earthly allure? 

Can a soul such as mine, that has wasted life's 
wealth 
On the baubles and gewgaws of time, 
(Ah me, on the baubles of time!) 
Have a fitting strength left to regain needed 
health 
For the life of a heavenly clime? 

For a life where the laws of the spirit, not sense. 

Bring their perfect eternal reward, 

(Ah, me, their eternal reward!) 
And the pleasures obtained with such fever 
intense 

Can find nowhere a vibrating chord ? 

Oh, woe is me, woe is me, this Easter day! 

No hope riseth up in my soul. 

(Ah me, my poor sin-laden soul!) 
I have only the dregs of my pleasure to pay, .'J 

And such wrong, bitter thoughts of life's U 

whole. 

But, listen ! What's that ? What's that message I 
hear 
Bearing down on my sad, troubled heart ? 
(Ah me, on my sad, troubled heart!) 
''Christ is risen indeed. He is risen to cheer, 
And His strength to the weakest impart." 

62 






O Christ, can it be that Thine own risen strength 
Can give Hfe, added life, to my soul ? 
To my sin-laden, weak, starving soul? 

Yes, 'tis true. I'll believe, and rejoice now at 
length 
To feel Easter's sweet joy o'er me roll. 

THE UNDER WORLD 

Under the restless surface 
Of ocean's vast domain, 

The god of perfect quiet 

Holds ever peaceful reign. 

Under the restless surface 

Of passions strong and wild, 

The still small voice of conscience 
Is heard in accents mild. 

Under the restless surface 

Of all man's Hfe on earth, 

The Christ of sacred story 

Renews each day his birth. 

VACATION 

In the heart of Vacation 
Lies nestling a seed 
To come to fruition 
For weary ones' need. 
Did'st find it, O spirit, 
So worn with the strife? 
Thy future will show it 
In new, stronger life ; 
The days will be richer. 
Thy heart more at rest, 

63 



More broad the horizon, 
More work at its best. 



SILENCE 

In the silence Hes a blessing 

New to every soul. 
Time nor Fortune cannot buy it- 

'Tis a sure pay-roll 

Sent as treasure 

In full measure 
For the giving up of self 

To the perfect whole. 

This the blessing, gentle reader, 

Only Silence knows ; 
If thou can'st to her surrender, 

Gladly she'll disclose. 

And the sages 

Of all ages 
Shall be guardians of thy need 

In action or repose. 



SILENCE AND SERENITY 

Silence and Serenity 

Are precious words to me 

For they help make the atmosphere 

Of peace and charity. 

And so I chant them as a nun I 

Chants over her pet beads '■ 

To bring the Holy Spirit near 
And lead to kindly deeds. 

64 



A TWILIGHT REVERIE 

Outlined against the twilight hue 

On yonder, quiet hill, 
The passive trees are swaying, singing, 
In love with Nature's will. 
Swaying, singing. 
Singing, swaying, 
Their destiny to fill 

So 'gainst the sky of fate and chance. 

Or pain that doubts instill, 
The trustful hearts are praying, planning. 
Harmonious with God's will. 
Praying, planning, 
Planning, praying, 
Earth's mission to fulfill. 



UPON LEAVING THE MADONNA DI SAN 
SISTO, DRESDEN, 1894. 

They say in the heavenly mansions 
That Beauty will show us her best ; 

Her rarest Madonnas and Cherubs, 
And angels we've dreamed of as blest. 

And while they are telling the story, 

I wonder if she will forget 
To come for our lovely Madonna, 

The one that her Raphael set 

On the clouds to await her fair coming, 
With cherubs to open the way, 

And saints that eternally worship 
The light of the heavenly day. 

65 



If this be thy mission, San Sisto, 
O queen of the art of this world, 

May I in that heavenly mansion 
Again see thy beauty unfurled! 

AN ANNIVERSARY 

And is time marked in heaven ? Dost know, 
O spirit friend, 
'Tis just a year ago today 
Thou went so suddenly away, 
And left me in my loneliness the weary days to 
spend ? 

Ah, weary days 
Denied thy praise. 
And all thy many helpful ways! 

And is earth known in heaven? Dost see 
O clear-eyed soul. 
The present, changing life of man 
Still working out the wondrous plan 
Of making even broken lives add to the complete 
whole ? 

Ah, broken lives 
That death deprives 
Of help like thine that heavenward strives ! 

And are we known in heaven? Do I 
Thy once fond care. 
Still have that patient yearning love 
Which longed to lift my soul above 
The sweet though transitory joys of even earth's 
best fare? 

Ah, earth's best fare 
Cannot compare 
With thy ideal of me laid bare! 

66 



A COMFORT 

''They that sow in tears 

Shall reap in joy," 
Sang a poet-heart in the long- ago, 
'Midst depths of sorrow, pain and woe ; 
And what to him was truth and life 
Has shown through all the ages' strife, 
To be at last our beacon-light 
Of comfort in the darkest night. 

They that sow in tears 

Shall reap in joy. 



FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF MRS. 
BROWNING'S DEATH 

June 29, 1 86 1. 

" 'Tis beautiful," she faintly cried, 
Then closed her weary eyes and died. 

So stands plain fact on history's page. 
Attested to by friend and sage. 

But in our hearts the fact grows bright, 
Illumined with immortal light. 

For open eyes saw heaven's shores, 
And life, not death, revealed its stores. 

" 'Tis beautiful !" It must be so, 
If such a soul 'midst parting's woe. 

Could with truth's perfect clearness see 
The secret of life's mystery ; 



67 



Could kiiozv that fullest life of man 
Needs heaven's light to round God's plan. 

O woman-soul without a peer, 

We thank thee more and more each year 

For this sweet proof of Beauty's power 
Beyond earth's transitory hour. 

It calms our hours of doubt and pain, 
And beautifies earth's troubled reign, 

To feel that thou art sending still 

This same sweet message of God's will. 

Born of fruition's grander sight, 
Of perfect beauty, peace, and light. 



ROBERT BROWNING 

"A peace out of pain, 
Then a light, then thy breast. 
O thou soul of my soul, I shall clasp thee again, 
And with God be the rest !" 

— Pro spice. 

Fulfilled December 12, 1889. 

Oh, the blessed fruition 

Of peace out of pain ! 
Of a light without darkness, 

A clasping again ! 
Of a full soul reunion 

In Love's endless reign ! 

68 



w 



Sing, O earth, with new joy 

At this victory won ! 
For the faith that endured 

Till the setting of sun ! 
For the hope that shone clear 

Through the mighty work done! 
For the love that sought God 

To guide love here begun! 
Sing, O earth, with new joy 

For such victory won ! 

PRAY FOR OUR DEAD? 

Pray for our dead? 

Oh no! 
They do not need our prayers. 
'Tis we who need their aid. 
They're nearer the Infinities, 
Nearer the blessed Throne^ 
Where each one comes a^one. 

Pray for the dead? 

Oh no! 
Pray for ourselves instead. 

WHICH? 

Like a rose revealing its beauty, 
Joy opened her treasures to me ; 

I held them in loving abeyance — 
No blest one could happier be. 

But Sorrow came wandering among them, 
Touched this one and that one to grief, 

And now I am wondering, wondering, 
To which one I'll turn for relief ; 

69 



For each said she was a true angel, 

Sent down from the great King of Kings, 

To lead me the way everlasting, 
To teach me invisible things. 

HEROES 

The heroes on the battlefieM are calm in death. 

Their fighting o'er. 
They feel no more the fevered breath 

Of battle's roar; 
They hear at last the voice that saith 

"Fight on no more." 

But oh, the heroes on the grander field of peace 

Who know no rest! 
Whose hearts feel not the full release 

From mortal quest, 
Nor breathe the air where struggles cease 
The soul to test. 

For such we mourn, O purifying soul of life ; 

For such we pray. 
Let Nature free them from the strife 

Of falsehood's way. 
And Love through every struggle rife 

Have free, full play. 



WHERE? WHAT? WHENCE? 

The kingdom of heaven is where. 

Oh, where? 
Would that the heart which with pity o'erflows, 
While deigning love's burdens to share, 

Could disclose! 

70 



i 



The kingdom of heaven is what, 

Oh, what? 
Would that the Infinite Presence which flows 
Through a Hfe on the earth finely cut 

Might disclose! 

Ah, let the wind and the breath of the rose, 
Their secrets of life and of sense 

Dare disclose ! 
Could we then see the better whence spirit arose ? 

Who knows? Oh, who knows? 



DOES IT PAY? 

Does it pay — all this burden and worry, 
All the learning acquired with pain, 

All the planning and nervous wild action, 
The restlessness following gain. 
Does it pay? 

To be free from this burden and worry, 

To have knowledge without fear and pain. 
To be peaceful, farseeing, sweet tempered. 

And calm in the presence of gain, 
We must know the pure secret of Nature, 

Like her be obedient to law. 
And work in the light of the promise 
Of blessed results Christ forsaw. 
Then each day. 
And alway, 
Life will pay. 



71 



IS THERE ANYTHING PURER? 

Oh, the prayer of a dear virgin-heart, 
Brpathed forth with true love's gentle art ! 
Is there anything purer 

On land or on sea. 
More laden with blessing 
For you or for me? 

It is sweeter than song ever heard, 
More precious than love's spoken word. 
It is fraught with a keen recognition 
Of truest soul-need and fruition. 
Is there anything purer 

On land or on sea. 
More laden with comfort 
For you or for me? 

It is oftentimes born in great pain, 
With no ray of hope's blessed gain. 
But as lulled by the angels at midnight 
Ere reaching the infinite daylight 
Is there anything surer 

On land or on sea. 
To bring the God-Father 
To you or to me ? 



ONE DAY AT A TIME 

"One day at a time," is the motto 
The crest of the ages reveals ; 

"One day at a time." 
So rolls the sun in the heavens. 
So shines the beauty of earth, 
So throbs the heart of creation. 



72 



I 



So whispers the angel of birth — 
"One day at a time." 

"One day at a time," is the motto 
The crest of humanity shows ; 

"One day at a time." 
So sings the man in his labor, 
So prays the heart in its pain, 
So works the slave in his anguish, 
So rules the king in his reign — ■ 

"One day at a time." 

"One day at a time," is the motto 
To honor song, action and rhyme. 
"One day at a time," 
"One day at a time," 
For Humanity's climb, 
"One day at a time." 



THE MUSE OF HISTORY 

Clio, with her flickering light 

And book of valued lore, 
Comes down the ages, dark and bright. 

Our interest to implore. 

She walks with glad majestic mien. 
Proud of her knowledge gained ; 

Though mourning oft at having seen 
Man's life so dull and pained. 

Her face with lines of care is wrought, 
From searching mystery's cause. 

And dealing with the hidden thought 
Of nature's subtle laws. 

73 



And yet she blushes with new Hfe 

At sight of actions fine^ 
And pales with anguish at the strife 

Of evil's dread design. 

She stops to sing her grandest lays 

When, in creation's heat, 
She sees evolved a higher phase 

Of life's fruition sweet. 

'Twas thus in days of Genesis, 
When man came forth supreme. 

'Twas thus in days of Nemesis 
When Love did dare redeem. 

And thus 'twill be in future days, 

When out from spirit laws, 
Shall be brought forth for lasting praise 

The ever great First Cause. 



YOUNG LOVE'S MESSAGE 

Sing, too, little bird, what my heart sings today. 
Dost thou know ? 
— I'll speak low — 
''Oh, I do love him so." ,, 

! 

Hold safe, waving grass, in thy rhythmical flow, 
What I say, 
Till the day 
When as sweet new-mown hay 

Thou can'st bear it to him in the fragrance loved 
best. 

Thou dost fear? — 

74 



i 



(Oh, love dear, 
How I wish thou wert here!) 

But pause, Httle cloud, thou can'st carry it now, 
I am sure. 
Sweet and pure, 
Though the winds do allure; 

For tho'U art on the way to the west where he is, 
But dost know? 
—Tell him low,— 
'That I do love him so, 
Oh ! I do love him so." 



AN OLD-FASHIONED LOVE-SONG 

I love thee — I love thee — 

Not for thy good name. 
For, onward and upward. 

That's always the same. 
But— 
I love thee, I love thee, 

For seeing in me 
The heart that is loyal 

Tlie mind that is free. 
Oh, 
I love thee, I love thee, 

(I whisper it low) 
Because thou dost love me 

Thine angel to know ! 



ABSENCE 

The days are happy here, dear, 
But happier would they be 

75 



Couldst thou be near to bless me 
With love's sweet ministry. 

Then all this beauty round me 
Would on my memory lie, 

As prayers of sainted mother 
Or childhood's lullaby. 

PRESENCE 

The days are restful here, dear. 
With thy sweet ministry ; 

All nature feels the breath of love, 
And life's a symphony. 

Eye drinks in all the beauty. 
Full heart the music feels ; 

While over all the hopes and fears 
God's benediction steals. 



LONGING 



Through all this summer joy and rest, 
Though lying on fair Nature's breast. 
There breathes the longing heart's desire, || 

''Would he were here !" * ' 

The thrill of pain kind Nature feels ; 
For all the while there o'er me steals 
Like holy chimes in midnight air, 
"He'll soon be here." 

And flowers and trees, vales, hills, and birds 
Make haste to echo her glad words, 
"He'll soon be here. ' 

76 



LOVE'S WISH 

Would I were beautiful ! 
Then you at Beauty's shrine might freely dine, 
A welcome guest 
For joy's bequest. 
But, dear, if this were so, 
If I were Beauty's child, all undefiled, 
To make you blest 
In beauty's quest, 

You might forget to see 
The soul's pure hidden shrine wherein e'er shine 
The things that test 
Love's true behest. 
Would I were beautiful, 
That you might better see the soul in me! 
That wish is best 
Is't not, dearest? 



A WIDOW'S HEART-CRY 

"Thy will, not mine, be done!" 

So breathe I when the day's begun. 

So breathe I when the day is done. 

I whisper it in blinding tears, 

I pause and listen, till appears 

The welcome voice for listening ears ; 

The voice which checks my wayward will 
And makes my longing heart to thrill 
With love for those who need me still. 



^7 



But, O, how long must I so pray, 

When will I learn to calmly say, 

*Thy will is mine," both night and day? 

Ah! this can never be on earth. 
Since he who gladly gave me birth 
To everything that was of worth 

Has gone from out my sense and sight. 

To what? O ye who still invite 

To heaven's sure realm and faith's own right, 

Reveal some clue for me to see 
What life is his, what he's to me. 
Alas ! ye can't. Then what can be 

More precious when the day is done, 

Or when the morning is begun, 

Than, "Not my will, but Thine, be done." 



A BIRTHDAY GREETING 

Thy birthday, dear? 
Oh, would I had the poet's art 
By which I could my wish impart 

For thy new year; 
But even poet's pen of gold 
Would fail my wish to thee unfold 

In earthly sphere. 

Thy birthday, dear? 
Oh, would I had the painter's skill 
Prophetic visions to fulfill 

For thy new year ; 
But even painter's rarest brush 

78 



Might all my holy visions crush, 
Or fail to cheer. 

Thy birthday, dear? 
Oh, would I had sweet music's aid 
To vitalize the prayers I've made 

For thy new year ; 
Alas ! not even music's best 
Could put in form my soul's behest 

For thee, my dear. 

That only will expression find 

In purest depths of thine own mind 

This coming year; 
As, guided by the inner light, 
There'll come to thee the new-born sight 

Of ravished seer. 

But in this sight thou may'st so feel 
Eternal beauty o'er thee steal 

— God's gift, my dear — 
That thou can'st find the blessed art 
Of making even depths of heart 

In form appear. 

Yet, it may be a heaven's birthday 
Will have to dawn for us to say 

Our best things, dear. 
For, as thou know'st. Truth's deepest well 
Must e'er reflect, its depths to tell 

Heaven's atmosphere. 



79 



THE LITTLE DOUBTER 

"Mamma, where is the sun today, 
While all this rain comes down?" 

—Ah, little girl 

Of flaxen curl. 
Who has not asked before 
This question o'er and o'er? — 

"Behind the clouds so thick and black 

The sun is shining still," 
The mother quickly answered back, 

Her child with faith to fill. 

The child looked up in strange surprise. 

In doubt almost a pain, 
Then turned again her wistful eyes 

To watch the pouring rain. 

'T don't believe 'tis shining still," 
She muttered to herself — 

—Ah, little girl 

Of flaxen curl, 
Why doubt the mother's word, 
Because of feelings stirred? 

*T won't believe it till I see 

The sun behind that cloud," 
She still went on, defiantly 

To say in accents loud. 

Now while she gazed as if to see 
The truth made known by sight, 

Behold the cloud did suddenly 
Become imbued with light. 



80 



"There, there, mamma, the sun, the sun !'' 

The Httle doubter cried. 
And full of joy at victory won, 

She danced with childish pride. 

The mother watched with tearful eyes 

Her child's transparent joy, 
But dared not quench the glad surprise, 

Or victory's power destroy. 

"Perhaps she'll need this proof," she sighed, 

"Of hidden things made plain. 
When in the depths of life she's tried 

And all fond hopes are slain." 

While thus she mused, as mothers will; 

The little daughter fair 
Rushed to her arms, all smiling still, 

And said, while nestling there, 

"Behind the clouds the sun does shine, 
While still the rain comes down" — 

—Ah, little girl 

Of flaxen curl. 
This wisdom is indeed 
For future hours of need. 



WILLARD AND FLORENCE ON MOUNT 
WACHUSETT, JULY, il 



Happy little girl and boy, 
Dancing hand in hand 
Over hill and valley-land 

Filled with summer- joy. 

8i 



Climbing up the steep path-side 

To Wachu sett's top, 

With that graceful skip and hop 
Born where fairies hide. 

Seeing Holyoke from the height, 

Old Monadnock clear, 

With Washacum twin-lakes near 
Sparkling in sun-light. 

Tripping down the mountain-road 

Back to summer-home 

Only pausing there to roam 
Where laurel finds abode. 

Jumping on the new mown hay, 

Sitting under trees, 

Feeling every mountain breeze, 
Hearing birds' sweet lay. 

Lying on the mossy stone 

By the brook's cascade, 

Listening 'neath the sylvan shade 
To its rippling tone. 

Down at pretty Echo Lake 

Plucking "maiden-hair," 

Gathering glistening "sundew" there 
For "dear mamma's sake." 

Picking in the pastures near 

Berries red and blue. 

Spying where the mayflowers grew 
Earlier in the year. 



82 



Watching for the sun to rise, 
Following sunset-cloud. 
Singing low and singing loud, 

While the swift day flies. 

Waiting for the ''Tally-ho," 
With its looked-for mails. 
While the strangers tell their tales 

As they come and go. — 

Happy little girl and boy 
Dancing hand in hand 
Over hill and valley-land 

Filled with summer- joy. 



ROSAMOND AND MILDRED 

Rosamond and Mildred, playing on the floor — 

I see! 
Laughing blue eyes, dimpled face, 
Laughing broiwn eyes, ways of grace. 
Chubby hands that interlace — 

I see! 

Rosamond and Mildred, trying hard to walk — 
I see! 
Clinging now to mamma's dress, 
Trembling in new happiness. 
Then at last a sweet success — 
I see! 

Rosamond and Mildred, born the same glad 
year — • 

I know ! 
Cousins ; each in her own way 

83 



Growing wiser every day, 
Full of promise as of play — 
I know! 

Rosamond and Mildred, parting to go home- 
Good-bye ! 
Each a little picture fair. 
Carrying blessing everywhere. 
Grateful are we for our share — 
Good-bye ! Good-bye ! 



WHAT LITTLE BERTRAM DID 

(A fact.) 

Our little Bertram, six years old. 

Sat on his grandpa's knee. 
Enjoying to the full the love 

That grandpa gave so free. 

When, looking up bewitchingly. 

He said, — the little teaze, — ■ 
"Will grandpa give me just one cent 

To buy some candy, please?" 

Who could resist such loveliness? 

This grandpa could not, sure. 
So with a kiss he gave the cent — 

Ah, how such things allure ! 

84 



I 



No sooner was the cent in hand, 

Than off the fair boy ran 
To buy his candy, '' 'lasses kind," 

Or little "candy-man." 

Now on his way, in scanning well 

A window full of toys. 
He spied a ring with big red stone, 

O'erlooked by other boys. 

All thought of candy was forgot. 

He'd buy that ring so fine 
For his new sister, Rosamond — 

Oh, how his eyes did shine! 

How could he stop to calculate 

The size of such a thing ; 
His only care was for the price — 

Would one cent buy the ring? 

Ah yes, it would. The ring was bought; 

And never girl or boy 
Went tripping homeward through the streets 

With greater wealth or joy. 



CHILDISH FANCIES 
(A fact.) 

My little nephew, four years old, 
A sweet-faced, blue-eyed boy. 

Was one day playing by my side 
With this and that pet toy. 

When all at once he said to me, — 
As, laying down my book, 

8s 



I paused a while to watch with joy 
His bright, expressive look, — 

"If Mac and I should plant today 

Some paper in the ground, 
Say, would it grow to be a book 

Like yours, with leaves all bound ?'* 

These were the same two little boys 
Whose nurse searched far and wide 

For little sister's rubber shoes ; 
"Where can they be?" she cried. 

"I know," replied Mac, eagerly, 
"W^e planted them last night. 

To see if they would bigger grow 
To fit our feet all right." 

Dear little boys ! These fancies hint 

Of future questions deep, 
When evolution's grand idea 

Shall o'er their vision sweep. 

God grant that when these come to them, 
As at Truth's shrine they bow, 

A childlike faith and earnestness 
May fill them then as now. 



"DEAR LITTLE MAC" 

When nearly eight years old, dear little Mac 
Was called from out his happy home-life here 
To that blest sphere 
Beyond earth's dearest power to call him back. 

86 



"His questions wise will now sure answer find," 
Said one who'd loved to watch his eager face, 
In happy chase 
Of many a thought which flitted through his 
mind. 

"Yes, he knows more than we," another said, 
"Instead of guiding him, he'll be our guide 
To where abide 
The things we need most to be comforted." 

While thus the older ones their comfort sought, 
Two of the children paused in midst of play. 
To have their say 
Concerning this great mystery Death had 
brought. 

"Dear little Mac," said Miriam, with a sigh, 
"He's gone way up to heaven where angels are, 
Way up so far 
That we can't ever see him till we die." 

"He's not up there," said Bertram. "He can't be. 
I saw them put him in the cold dark ground. 
And I went round 
And threw some flowers in for him to see." 

"He isn't there/' replied the four-year-old, 
"He's up in heaven. My mamma told me so. 
He is, I know 
He isn't in the ground all dark and cold." 

A moment Bertram sat absorbed in thought, 
While Miriam felt the joy of victory. 
Then suddenly 
The lovely six-year-old this idea caught: 

87 



"I tell you what, Mac's body's in the ground ; 
His head, his feet, and every other part, 
But just his heart — 
And that's gone up to heaven, and angels found." 

The child thus solved the thoughts that troubled 
so. 
And as I overheard this earnest talk, — 
Which might some shock, — 
I wondered if we could more wisdom show. 

As each seemed satisfied, their play went on. 
But Bertram's thought sank deep in sister's 
mind, 

And left behind 
The wonder how dear Mac to heaven had gone. 

At last, when ready for their sweet ''Good 
Night," 
She softly said, 'Tt can't be very dark. 
Not very dark 
For Mac, I know, 'cause God will make it light." 

Oh, lovely faith of childhood's trusting days. 
Sent fresh from heaven to be our loving guide, 
When sadly tried 
By doubt or sorrow's strange, mysterious ways. 



A LITTLE BRAZILIAN 

(A fact.) 

'Twas in Brazil last Christmas day, 

While at a family feast, 
A little girl of five years old 

The merriment increased. 

By crying out, — as glasses held 

The ice she ne'er had seen, — 
''Oh see! what pretty little stones. 

What for? Where have they been?" 

''Here, give her one," the host exclaimed, 

Pleased with her childish glee. 
"Twill show her as no words could show 

What ice is, and must be." 

She grasped the "white stone" in her hand, 

All watching eagerly, 
When suddenly she let it fall. 

And cried, "It's burning me." 

But, anxious still to see it more. 

She asked a servant near 
To hand it in a napkin wrapped — 

Then there would be no fear. 

Again the ice was in her hand. 

Her plaything for the day. 
When all at once she cried aloud, 

"The stone is running away." 

A glass of water now was used, 
Sure that would keep it hers. 

89 



But no ! with all her loving watch 
The same result occurs. 

The plaything gone, at evening hour 

She sat on uncle's knee. 
'*Who makes those white stones, you or God?" 

She asked, inquiringly. 

'Tn Miss Brown's land (a Boston friend) 

God makes them," answered he. 
*'But in Brazil a factory-man 

Makes them for you and me." 

A moment's pause. Then said the child, 
— Heaven's blessing on her fall, — 

"Why doesn't God get from Brazil 
A man to make them all?" 



THANKSGIVING DAY 

Grandpa and Grandma always say 
Thanksgiving is the children's day ; 
And so they let us run and play 
Just as we please. 

When tired, I sit on Grandpa's knee ; 
He sings Thanksgiving songs to me, 
And tells me I must thankful be, 
Just like the trees, 

Who offer up — as he declares — 
Their Autumn leaves as little prayers 
For all the wealth the harvest bears ; 
And then he tells, 

90 



How Nature loves to show her praise, 
By wearing what the farmers raise 
As jewels on Thanksgiving days. 
(How does he know?) 

And while he's telling all these things, 
And dancing dolly as he sings, 
The dinner bell Thanksgiving rings ; 
And off we go. 

With papa, mamma, dolUes, all, 
To just the same old dining-hall. 
Where papa heard his Grandma call 
Thanksgiving Day. 

They put me in the same high chair 
That papa had when he lived there ; 
"Her precious little curly-hair," 
So Grandma says. 

Oh, how we open wide our eyes, . 
To see the turkeys, puddings, pies, 
Which mamma calls "Thanksgiving size,' 
(She always knows.) 

The apples have such rosy cheeks ; 
And papa says, "All Nature speaks 
A beauty every artist seeks," 
(What does he mean?) 

Oh, everything is all so grand ; 
Why don't all Grandpas in the land 
Help little children understand 
Thankgiving Day? 



91 



FRANKIE'S POSTAL 

(Dedicated to Postmen.) 

"To God in Heaven," a postal clerk 

Spied on a card one day, 
While sorting out the Boston mail 
Ere postmen sped their way. 
''What does this mean," 
He paused to say, 
"The like of this I've never seen?" 
Then turning o'er, 
As ne'er before. 
He read with trembling lips, 
"Please, God, send me a cart to get my mother 
chips." 
"Dear child," he sighed. 
To one aside. 
Then read the name and date, 
"I'm Frankie Welch of Hammond street, one 
hundred eight." 
"Let's find the boy," the postman cried, 
He really may need care. 

Why can't we be his "God in Heaven" 
To answer such a prayer?" 

And when they found, as postal said, 
A cart would help to earn the bread, 
Their hearts and purse were quickly won. 
But what the seven-year-old had done 
The widowed mother never dreamed, 
'Twas a surprise to all it seemed. 
But when the child the cart received 
'Twas no surprise, for he believed 
His postal card had gone indeed 
To God in Heaven, who saw his need. 



92 



And sent the cart that he might share 
The burdens mother had to bear. 

O child of faith! O postmen kind! 
The world is richer for this mind 
That lifts to God in Heaven the eye 
And brings relief to human cry. 

OUR KITTIE 

"Chinchilla? Come, 'Chilla"— 
***** 

Ah, here she comes bounding, 
So quick to respond. 
How can we but love her. 
Her fur like chinchi'la — 
Her movements all grace — ■ 
Such a wise little face — 
Oh, who could but love her 
Our dear, pretty 'Chilla! 



OUR KITTY'S TRICK 

[These verses, true in every detail, are only 
preserved in remembrance of a pet cat of our 
family for many years.] 

I know that all the boys and gir's 

Would be so glad to see 
Our kitty do the little trick 

She often does for me. 

When asked, ''O kitty, where's the ball?" 

She to my shoulder leaps, 
And looks directly to the shelf 

Where from a box it peeps. 

93 



She will not cease to look and beg, 

Until I find the place 
Where she can take between her teeth 

The ball with easy grace. 

Then quickly to the floor she jumps; 

When, dropping first the ball, 
She runs behind the open door 

That leads into the hall. 

She waits with only head in sight, 

The ball to see me throw ; 
Then after it she scampers well 

Some forty feet or so. 

She never fails to bring it back; 

Then lifts with wondrous grace 
Her velvet paw to take the ball 

From out its hiding-place. 

This done, she nestles by my side, 

And purrs while I caress. 
Unconscious of the trick she's done 

Since three months old or less. 

She thus will lie in calm repose 

So long as I am still ; 
But if I move to touch the ball, 

Then all her nerves will thrill. 

Her eyes will shine, she'll quickly find 
Her place behind the door. 

And wait again to see the ball 
Roll on the long hall floor. 



94 



Ah, kitty dear, who told you how 

To join thought, act, and sight? 
Must not we think that in you dwells 

The germ of mental light, 

The gemi that makes you kin to us 

In kind though not degree, 
But which was quickened by His touch 

For our supremacy? 

AT WENHAM. 

(The part of the house containing the room 
referred to was built early in the last half of the 
seventeenth century. It was the house which 
Wenham (the first distinct township set ofif — in 
1639 — from Salem) gave to the second pastor 
of its church, Rev. Antipas Newman, who mar- 
ried, while living there, Governor Winthrop's 
daughter. It was boug'ht by John Porter in 
1703, and remained in his family name without 
alienation until 1903, when it was totally de- 
stroyed by fire.) 

Before a smouldering fire at twilight hour 

I muse alone. The ancient room, low-beamed, 

Holds for my ear thoughts voiced by forms that 

teemed 
Two hundred years ago with life and power. 
I breathe the essence of sweet joys that flower 
In light of home ; while life that only seemed 
On history's page becomes the real, redeemed 
From all the chafif that time fails not to shower. 

Ah, such old places, holding through the years 
Continuous life of man's activity, 

95 



Reveal a wealth beyond that which appears 
In modern homes built e'er so lovingly. 
Imbued so long with human hopes and fears, 
Have they not claim to perspnality ? 



THE "DAUGHTERS" SONG.* 

While dreaming of a nation fair, 
Comes floating through the peaceful air, 
"America, Columbia. 
Columbia, America." 
And our hearts feel the glow. 

Of a life at high-tide 
With its work and its song 

And its joys that abide. 
With its work and its song 
And its joys that abide. 
"America, Columbia. 
Columbia, America." 

As Daughters we are borne along, 
While listening to the patriot's song, 
"America, Columbia. 
Columbia, America." 
And we mount on the wings 

Of the soul's fleeting dreams, 
And the whole world is ours 

Through the love that redeems. 
And the whole world is ours 
Through the love that redeems. 
"America, Columbia. 
Columbia, America." 

^Set to music by Adaline Frances Fitz. 

96 



I 



THE KNOWN GOD. 

If Paul in Athens' street left nothing more 
Than what he found when deep in sacred thought 
He stood and marvelled o'er what had been 

wrought, 
The To the Unknozvn God of heathen lore, 
Then were he only one on thought's wide shore 
To lose his name in others. But, heaven-taught, 
Undaunted, and in words experience-fraught. 
Declared he God as known forevermore. 

Paul's words, made deep and strong by martyred 

Hfe, 
Are more than vision deified. They are 
Love's balm to permeate true mental strife, 
And bring to sin-sick, weary souls a star 
Of hope to shine through all their struggles rife. 
To the known God. Through Paul we dare thus 

far. 



TO THE MEMORY OF ABIGAIL ADAMS. 

June 17, 1896. 

We build a Cairn replete with thought of her, 
Who, Queen of Daughters, earned a Nation's 
lasting praise. 
It glories in the light and freedom sought 

For all the Sons and Daughters of the coming 
days. 

Note. — This Cairn was erected with appropriate cere- 
mony June 17, 1896, by the Adams Chapter of the 
Daughters of the Revolution of Quincy, Massachusetts, 
on the spot on Penn's Hill where Abigail Adams and 
her seven-year-old John Quincy saw the battle of Bun- 
ker Hill. 

97 



Its corner-stone, like her, resplendent shines, 
To bear the thoughtful gaze of people yet un- 
born. 
Its rugged form a mother-love enshrines — 
A beacon for our land, 'till dawns th' eternal 
morn. 

Watch tenderly, O air^ O sky, O fates! 

And may these stones, so blessed by loving 
hearts and hands 
Be lasting symbols of our glorious States 

Built up by noble souls for pilgrims of all lands. 

AFTER THE DENIAL. 

When fast was broken on Tiberias' shore, 
The risen Lord, still anxious that his own 
Should know love's secret as to him 'twas 
known, 
Thrice asked of Peter, "Lovest thou me more 
Than these?" The third time Peter's heart was 
sore. 
Must even love divine have doubt's sad tone? 
*'Thou knowest, Lord, I love thee," was his 
moan. 
Then ''Feed my sheep," Christ answered as be- 
fore. 

Still in these days the risen Lord bends o'er 
The shores of time, and longs for human love ; 
The love that hears his voice, awake, asleep, 
And makes response as Peter did of yore, 
"Lovest thou me?" O Christ, from heights 

above, 
Thou knowest that we love Thee. "Feed my 
sheep." 

98 



GETHSEMANE. 
Matthew 26: 36-46. 

''Could ye not watch with me one hour?" O heart 
Of Christ, still longing in the bitterest hour 
For human sympathy and love to shower 
A needed strength beyond words to impart ! 
Humanity is richer for this art 
Of seeing in poor finite man a power — 
Before which even ministering angels cower 

To know all truth, e'en dread Gethsemane's 
smart. 

Alas ! the power to know will bring the pain ; 

But through the pain of wisdom's true insight 
Is Christ's own perfect sympathy made plain. 

Possessed of this, we see in tenderest light 
His sorrowing heart in failing to obtain 

The longed-for love in hour of darkest night. 



FORGIVENESS 

Luke 23-24. 

From holy depths he to the Father prayed, 
''Forgive them, for they know not what they 

do." 
His heart pierced then — with anguish through 

and through. 
Cried out, " 'Tis finished," as he death obeyed. 
In bitterest wrong this marvellous soul was 

weighed 
With tenderest love and longing towards those 

who 
Through ignorance of what they might be too, 
Were now the slaves of evil passion's raid. 

99 

l.ofC. 



''They know not what they do." O blessed 
sight 
Into the heart of sin's great mystery. 
Forgiveness here is shown in sweetest hght, 

The child of love and of sincerity. 
Blest are those souls who reach this precious 
height ; 
They know the secret of Christ's victory ! 



THE SONG OF LINCOLN 

In Life's great symphony, 
Above the seeming discord and the pain, 
A master-voice is ever singing, singing, 

The plan of God to man. 

Thus in America's song, 
When threatening tumult pierced the tensioned 

air, 
The voice of Lincoln over all was singing 
The love of brother-man. 

And still his voice is heard ; 
'Twill pierce the din of strife and mystery, 
'Till master-voices cease their singing, singing, 

In life's great symphony. 



lOO 



V 

TO SOME 
CONTEMPORARIES 



RECOGNITION 

(To Edmund Clarence Stedman.) 

The flesh faileth, — 
The heart fainteth, — 

But the soul shines bright and clear, 
In the faithful work done, 
The honest fame won. 

And the wealth of the Master's cheer. 

Oh the joy of it all, 

The poet's call ! 
Past the vision of saint, 

Or wisdom of seer; 
Immortal, unending, — 

Creation's blest sphere ! 

The flesh faileth, — • 
The heart fainteth, — • 

But the soul shines bright and clear, 
In the banner unfurled 
For the. Truth of the world, 

And the love of each one of us here. 



TO OUR LADY OF THE WHITE HOUSE 



Three little cherubs are feeling 

The love of thy warm mother-heart, 
While three litt^e hearts are revealing 
The secrets that angels impart. 

Oh the wealth of the giving. 
The joy of receiving! 
Is there deeper delight 
Or more beautiful sight? 

103 



Three little sisters are learning 

The grace of thy womanly ways, 
While three little minds are discerning 
The paths that lie open to praise. 

Oh the wealth of the seeing, 
The joy of the knowing! 
Is there beauty more pure 
Or wisdom more sure? 

Three little daughters are loving 

The Lady we all love today. 
Ruth, Esther and Marion darling — 
May we not our sweet homage pay? 
Oh the wealth of the giving, 
The joy of receiving! 
Is there picture more fair 
For the nations to share? 

TO OUR LADY AT PRINCETON 

1897. 

Another dear cherub is blessing 
The heart of our Lady today. 
And three little girls are caressing 
A "new little brother," they say. 

Oh, the weaHh of the blessing 
The joy of the loving! 
Is there home-life more fair 
Or affection more rare? 

TO OUR LADY AT PRINCETON 
January, 1904. 

Now one of the cherubs is following 
The Angel of Death without fear. 

And the other dear cherubs are wondering 
Why came such an angel down here. 

104 



Oh, the pain of the learning, 
The gain of discerning! 
Is there tenderer need 
For Wisdom to heed? 

The home of Our Lady is missing 

The presence of word and of deed ; 
While the hearts that have blest in the leading 
Now wait for the cherub-child's lead. 
Or, the rest of believing. 
The wealth of receiving! 
Is there comfort more sure 
For the souls that endure? 



TO LITTLE DOROTHY DREW 

(As Gladstone lay dying, his grandchild, 
Dorothy Drew, was brought to him. When she 
saw that he did not recognize her, she burst into 
tears and left the room sobbing violently.) 

Dear little lonely Dorothy Drew, 
Bereft of her Grandpa, great and true. 
Did you find it so hard to understand 
How his once ever loving heart and hand 

Could not know you ? 
Did it seem so strange he could not bless. 
Or give the looked-for sweet caress 

His love for you? 
No wonder the tears fell thick and fast, 
And the child-heart sobbed, as it felt at last, 

The mystery new. 

Ah, little Dorothy, Dorothy Drew, 

The pef of a Grandpa, all men knew. 

Should you grasp the wisdom of all the spheres, 

105 



And feel the honors of men and years 

Known only to few, 
You would still long to see on the face of your 

own 
Some response of the love you had once fondly 
known, 

The love poured for you. 
The child and the sage meet on this common 

ground ; 
The sobs and the tears then as now would abound, 
Dear, Dorothy Drew. 
Boston, 1898. 



WILHELMINA 
Feb. 7, 1 90 1. 

A Queen by right of birth as well as name, 
Pet Queen of all the nations ! 

On this thy wedding day, 
'Midst grief profound 
At passing of another Queen to Heaven's sight 

and sound, 
The land of uncrowned queens sends greeting to 
the crowned ! 

While over all 
Is heard God's call : 
"Rise to the royal height where love and truth 
abound." 



TO MRS. H. H. A. BE'ACH 

There's a lingering sound, 
As the earth goes round. 
Of the harmonies sung in space 
By the angel-choirs 

106 



With heavenly lyres, 
And a life no age can displace. 

Sometimes at our best, 

In our heart's deepest rest, 
Or in soul-stirring, rare, fleeting dreams. 

Its echo we hear — ■ 

The angels appear — 
And the air with the heavenly life teems. 

And we fall back aghast 
At the harmonies vast ; 

Our hands fail in trembling despair ; 
But you, braver soul, 
Catch the sounds as they roll. 

And save them for nations to share. 

Boston, 1896. 



TO WALT WHITMAN 

'T loafe and invite my soul." 
And what do I feel? 
An influx of life from the great central power 
That generates beauty from seedling to flower. 

'T loafe and invite my soul." 
And what do I hear? 
Original harmonies piercing the din 
Of measureless tragedy, sorrow, and sin. 

*T loafe and invite my soul." 
And what do I see? 
A temple of God in the perfected man 
Revealing the wisdom and end of earth's plan. 

107 



LINES 

(Sent to the dinner given in honor of Walt 
Whitman's seventieth birthday, at Camden, N. 
J., May 31, 1889, at 5 o'clock P. M.) 

''Splendor of ended day floating and filling me."* 
Comes to my mind as I think of the hour 

When our poet and friend will be lovingly drink- 
ing 
The mystical cup of the seventy years' power. 

Were I the man-of-war bird he has pictured 
Nothing could keep me from flying that way, 

But, though absent in body, there's nothing can 
hinder 
My tasting the joys of that festive birthday ; 

For on the swift wings of the ending day's splen- 
dor 
My soul will glide in to drink deep the cup's 
wealth. 
Who knows but the poet's keen sense of pure 
friendship 
Will feel, 'midst the joy, what I drink to his 
health ?— 

Splendor of ended day 

Be but the door 
Opening the endless way — 
Life evermore. 
^ *"Song at Sunset." — W. W. 

TO PHILLIPS BROOKS 

O type of manhood, strong, serene and chaste, 
Attuned to law of man as well as God^ 
We hail thee as a guide, who, having trod 

108 



With Christ the spirit fields, in eager haste 

Makes glad return to give us blessed taste 

Of fruit there found. Through thee our feet are 

shod 
With Gospel-peace, while thy imperial rod 

Becomes our need in times of drought or waste. 

How can we thank thee for thy helpful cheer 
O master-spirit of the priests of earth ! 

By daily doing penance without fear, 
Or resting, satisfied in deeds of worth? 

Oh no ! 'Tis when we breathe Love's atmosphere 
And live like thee the life of heavenly birth. 

Boston, 1890. 

TO B. P. SHILLABER 
July 12, 1888. 

When lingering Day at last recedes from sight, 
And Night comes slowly forth to fill her place, 
Preceded by a twilight-hour's loved face 

Reflecting glorious rays of sunset light, 
'Tis then my thoughts go wandering with delight 

Through oft frequented avenues of space 
To those dear souls — the dearest of the race — 

Who've dwelt with me on friendship's purest 
height. 

From this old mountain top I come to you, 

My large-souled, trusted friend of many a year, 

With birthday greetings of the roseate hue 
Left by a perfect Day just lingering here. 

Oh, may life's twilight hold a peace as true 
And be as filled with hope of dawn's sweet 
cheer ! 

Mount Wachusett, Massachusetts. 
109 



TO MRS. PARTINGTON. 

July 12, 1886. 

Another birthday here? 
It hardly seems a year 
Since I these words did hear, — 
When three score years and one did crown thee, — 
"Not till I am an octagon, 
Or, worse still, a centurion. 
Shall I be old, with factories gone 
All idiomatic and forlorn." 

But thou art still a "membrane" dear 

Of what we call society's cheer ; 

"Ordained beforehand, in advance." 

(Twas "foreordained," that does enhance,) j 

To hurl not "epitaphs" which sting, | 

But a new "Erie's" dawn to bring, 

Of "fluid" thoughts which counteract 

The "bigamies" of fate and fact. | 

Alas! thy crutch of many years. 
Still hints "romantic" pains and fears 
A "Widow Cruise's oil jug" say 
To keep "plumbago" still at bay! 

Its helpful mission has a share 
In "Lines of Pleasant Places" rare. 
And, by the way, not crutch alone 
Finds in that book its value shown. 

There in the depths of friendship's mines 
Are seen thy tenderest, purest lines ; 
Impromptus born at love's command 
To deck occasion's wise demand. 

no 



One finds no "Sarah's desert" there, 

No "reprehensible" despair; 

But teeming thoughts on Mounds and Press 

Poured out in pure unselfishness. 

This brings to mind thy Knitting-Work, 
Wherein that "plaguey Ike" does lurk, 
And other books with humor rife, 
Done in the "priming" of thy life. 

"Contusion of ideas," O no ; 
What "Angular Saxon" would say so? 
"Congestive thoughts then so inane 
They'd 'decompose' the soundest brain." 

Yes, there it is, thy humor still. 
Not seventy years and two can kill, 
'Tis free from all "harmonious" lore, 
A "wholesome," not a "ringtail" store. 



AN ANSWER 
To B. P. S. 

"Why don't I write a story ?" 
Ah, friend, if you could see 

The depths of hidden heart-life 
Alas ! so known to me. 

You'd find the truest story 

Flashed out in gleams of light. 

Before which all pens falter 
And vanish out of sight. 

And as they vanish from me 
They leave the impress clear, 

III 



That only Heaven's pen could write 
Such stories acted here. 

So in His book of life, 
Revealed to aU some day, 

You'll find my story grand and true, 
Worked out in His own way. 



HELEN GOULD 

In the beauty of song or story, 
In the glory of peace or strife, 

There's ever a Lady Bountiful 
To honor the daily life. 
With a wealth of love, 
A strength of soul, 
A sense of honor 
And calm control. 

Which lifts her to the pinnacle 
Of Fame's high roll. 

With ''Santa Filomena," 

And Clara Barton brave, 
Now shines our Santa Helen — • 
Whose work to help and save. 

Through wealth of gold 

Of magic power 

Set in the wish 

To bless the hour, 
Makes her our Lady Bountiful, — 

Our Nation's dower. 

To praises of the ages, 
Shall we not give ours here, 
While gratefully remembering 
The saints of every sphere? 
Boston, 1898. 

112 



CHILDHOOD'S DAYS 
To M. C. 

If knowledge gained in later years 

May wholly cloud from sight 
The glimpse which childhood's eye hath caught 

Of heaven's celestial light, 

Then need we not the atmosphere 

Of second childhood's days 
To catch another broader glimpse 

Of heaven's immortal rays? 

Ah, yes ; we even need to seek. 

Through earth's illusive hour. 
Immortal childhood's heavenly days 

Of sweet, revealing power ; 

For how can otherwise we catch 

The deeper glimpses yet 
Of life eternal, glorious, pure. 

Where sun hath never set? 



ON SUGAR HILL 
(To F. B. F.) 

The lovely valleys nestling in the arms 

Of growing mountain peaks ; 
The purple tint of sunset-hour, and charms 

An evening hour bespeaks ; 
The monarch peak kissed by the rising sun 

While clouds keep guard below ; 
Grand, restful views, with foliage autumn-won, 

And Northern lights rare glow. — 

113 



Will e'er recall 

In memory's hall, 
The happy days when on fair "Look-OffV 

height, 
Sweet friendship cast her hues of goMen light. 



JOSEF HOFMANN 

(After hearing him play at Boston Music Hall 
in 1888.) 

O marvellous child, a temple where in ease 
Expectant Genius dwells, while lingering here 
On earth to fit us for the heavenly sphere, 
Dost feel awe-struck to know thou hast the keys 
To new and wondrous unheard harmonies? 
O favored boy, marked out to be the peer 
Of those who in all ages God's voice hear, 
Hushed are our souls before what thy soul sees ! 

Guard tenderly, O earth, O sky, O fates. 
This precious earthly temple of Art's shrine ! 
May chilling poverty, or sin that dates 
Soul loss, ne'er hinder Genius wise design 
To have full sway, as she anticipates — 
In working out, in time, her laws divine. 



TO OUR MARY 

Sweet sister, thoughtful ever of our need, 

Forgetting self, if only we be served, 

How oft thy loving sympathy has nerved 

Our fainting hearts to kinder, nobler deed, 

Or brought to being thoughts that intercede 

114 



For others' progress. We, all undeserved, 
Can not forget that life to ends thus curved 
Made time for us to plant our own pet seed. 

The world owes much to many a sister dear, 
Who, banishing with tears in midnight hour 

A fond desire for larger, happier, sphere, 
Strives faithfully in lowly life to shower 

Rich daily blessings. Such may know while here 
A Christlike joy unknown to worldly power. 



THE REAL STONE FACE 

To Eugenia Jones-Bacon, owner and discov- 
erer of the natural portrait stone she picked up 
in the Oberammergau pathway. 

O wondrous face, through untold ages wrought 
By faithful Nature in the mountain-way 
O'er looking 'Ammergau's acted Passion P'ay, 

Tell us thy secret as to thee 'twas taught. 

May we like her, whose heart with sorrow fraught 
Received thee as her own to be a stay 
In hour of loneliness, as truly say, 

"From heart of sorrow comes the deepest 
thought." 

Nature, as Art, at last has dared revealed 
The Man of Sorrows with marvellous face 
No human soul can fully understand. 
But every heart its secret may so feel 
As to reflect a light no time, nor space 

Nor element, its blessing can withstand. 

London, England, 1894. 

115 



WILHELM GERICKE 
(Leader of the Boston Symphony Orchestra.) 

"Great poets can without the aid 

Ot kindred mind 
Reveal to us the secrets laid 

On them to find ; 
But music kings need ministries 
To sound their hidden harmonies. 

For showing us the inmost heart 

Of these great kings, 
And making clear with wondrous art 

Their wanderings, 
We thank thee, while we tender here 
A 'bon voyage' to home loved sphere." 

So said we nine short years ago 

To him who now 
Comes back to us, again to show 

The why and how 
Of Music's holy wanderings 
In heart of her own chosen kings. 

All hail, rare leader, tuned to know 

Such ministry ! 
Through orchestra of thine must flow 

Pure harmony! 
Welcome again to friendly shores. 
We follow where thy vision soars. 

Boston, 1898. 



116 



J 



TO B. J. LANG 

They say there are ministering spirits, 
Who come out of God's loving heart 

To show us the wisdom and beauty 
Of action, of thought and of art. 

Now I love to call such our "teachers" — 
A name that the ages have blest ; 

And to such cast a wreath of remembrance 
Ere they are called back to their rest. 

So here's to my true music-teacher, 
Who lighted a torch in my youth 

By which I have always had Music 
To gladden each new path of Truth. 

Boston, 1897. 



AN EASTER CAROL 
(To Willard Gould Harding.) 

Fair flowers look up to the heavens and sing, 

"Our Easter has come." 
And birds exultingly sing on the wing, 

"Dear Easter has come." 

Even earth sings the song as she rolls on in space. 
Reflecting the glory of hope on her face. 

Oh, Easter has come 
And all Nature sings 
The glad resurrection 
That Easter-tide brings. 

117 i 



And in the great chorus each one of us sings, 

"Our Easter has come." 
Out of pain and of sorrow eternal Hfe springs ; 

For Easter has come, 
With her angels of beauty and hope from above. 
Revealing the wonders ot Infinite love. 

Oh, Easter has come^ 
And every heart sings 
The glad revelation 
That Easter-tide brings. 



IN A HAMMOCK 

(To Elizabeth Porter Tilton.) 

The rustling leaves above me, 
Fresh breezes sighing round me. 
A network glimpse of bluest sky 
To meet the upturned, seeing eye, 
The greenest lawn beneath me. 
Fair flowers and birds to cheer me, 
A well-kept house of ancient days 
To hint of human nature's ways — 
Oh, happy, happy hour! 

Whence comes all this to bless me, 
The soft wind to caress me. 
This life which does my strength renew 
For grander work and larger view ? 
Alas ! no one can tell me ; 
But, hush, let Nature lead me. 
Let even wisest questions cease 
While I breathe in such life and peace 
This happy, happy hour! 

Wenham, Mass. 

ii8 



I 



TO NEPTUNE, IN BEHALF OF 
Sister, S. C. G. 

O Neptune, in thy vast survey 

Of all the ships that sail, 
Watch lovingly the well-known way 

Of one we wait to hail. 

The Cephalonia is her name — 

But why need I tell more ? 
Thou know'st indeed the well earned fame 

She bears from shore to shore. 

But since among her company's band 

Is one who's life to me, 
O Neptune, bear her in thy hand 

E'en yet more tenderly. 

O'er gentle waves, 'neath fair blue sky, 

'Midst winds that only blow 
To make the time more swiftly fly 

For hearts that hunger so ! 

Boston, September 4, 1886. 



A THANK-OFFERING 
To Miss Elizabeth P. Peabody. 1887. 

Thou priestess of pure childhood's heart, 

Wherein God's spirit lies, 
Thou willing priestess of the art 

Of true self sacrifice, 

Ere lingering spirit takes its flight 
To realms beyond our praise, 

119 



Where childhood's pure eternal light 
Shines through the blessed days, 

We thank thee for thy legacy 
Of thought wrought out in deed, 

By which love's sweet supremacy 
Becomes man's potent need. 



Must not we all thy secret share. 

Ere we can fully rise 
To heights of truth and insight rare 

Where wisdom's glory lies? 



SHE KNOWS 

(Written at Mountain Cottage, on Mount 
Wachusett, where Louisa M. Alcott spent the 
last summer of her life.) 

Last summer she believed that in and through 
these beauteous scenes 
God's loving self did flow. 
But now she knows 'tis so. 

For, having crossed the boundary lines of honest 
doubt and fear. 
She sees with spirit-eye 
What sense could not descry. 

Her firm belief, thus blossomed into perfect 
flower of sight, 
Becomes a restful cheer 
To all who linger here, 

120 



Still asking for the secret of these changing, 
beauteous scenes, 
And troubled with the why 
Of all earth's sorrowing cry. 

Her presence here has fiHed the place with 
memory of a soul 
Made beautiful through pain 
Eternity to gain. 

August I 



AT PITTSFORD, VERMONT 
To J. A. C. 

As winds the lovely Otter Creek through vales 
of summer green, 
Ne'er pausing on its way, 
Though love its tribute pay, 

So gently winds my loving thought through 
memory's changing scenes, 
To days of long ago 
When thee I first did know. 

Thy heartfelt sympathy and help were to my 
fresh young soul 
What these dear Vermont hills 
Are to the little rills; 

A presence near, a faithful strength, life-giving 
and serene — ■ 
Oh, hills, be now as much 
To her who feels Time's touch ! 

In different paths, through various ways, we've 
known the world since then. 

121 



Together now we rest 

On Nature's peaceful breast. 



THE GOD OF MUSIC 
To E. T. G. 

Out from the depths of silence 
The god of music came, 

To echo heavenly cadence 

On earth's fair shores of fame. 

Full-orbed, with heavenly glory, 
He met the lords of earth. 

But 'twas the oM, old story, 
They blind were to his worth. 

So back to depths of silence 
He flew on wings of light, 

'To bide their time of nonsense," 
He sang when out of sight. 

And as rolled on the ages. 

He ever and anon 
Sent down to earth his pages 

'the lords to breathe upon. 

At length he felt vibrations, 
From Germany's fair clime, 

Of sweetest modulations 

Heard in the realms of time. 

So forth he flew in rapture 
To that dear father-land, 

To seize — ere earth could capture — 
A spirit pure and grand, 

122 



To which he could surrender 
Himself with perfect ease, 

And weave the music tender, 
Of heaven's own harmonies. 

He found the child Beethoven ; 

On him his blessing- fell. 
And in his soul was woven 

The sounds we know so well. 



FOR E. T. F. 

I. 

After the birth of her son, R. A. F. 

I'd rather hear my baby's coo, 
That little gurgling coo, 
Than rarest song or symphony 
Born out of music's mystery 
Which once did woo. 

I'd rather see my baby's face. 
That lovely dimpled face, 
Than all the choicest works of art, 
Inspired by loving hand or heart, 
Contained in space. 

I'd rather feel my baby's eyes, 

Such deep blue heavenly eyes, 
Than all the world's delighted gaze, 
Proclaiming with continued praise 
My power to rise. 

O yes, 'tis true, my baby dear, 

My precious baby dear, 
Is more than music, art, or fame 

123 



Or anything that bears the name 
Of pleasure here. 

For in this joy I find a rest, 

A soul-inspiring rest, 
Beyond the wealth of fame or art, 
To satisfy my woman-heart, 

Or make it blest. 

And as I live in this my gift, 

My heaven-sent, blessed gift. 
Thoughts such as Mary pondered o'er 
Deep in her heart in days of yore 
Come to uplift, 

And make the claims of motherhood, 

Dear sacred motherhood, 
Become creation's mountain height, 
Whereon e'er shines the beacon-light 
Of womanhood. 



II. 

After the death of R. A. F 

Would I could see my baby's face, 
That lovely dimpled face — 

O God, how can I bear the pain 

Of never seeing it again, 
My baby's face; 

Of never seeing in those eyes, 

Those deep blue heavenly eyes. 
The wondrous glimpses of soul-light 
Which filled my heart with strange delight 
And sweet surprise ; 



124 



Of never hearing baby's coo, 
That Httle gurg ing coo — 

God, how can I bear the pain 
Of never hearing it again, 

My baby's coo. 

Alas ! "Thy will, not mine, be done. 
Not mine, but Thine, be done. 

1 can but breathe again this prayer. 
As in the days of past despair. 

When peace was won. 



TO THE TANSIES GROWING ON THE 
GRAVE OF A. S. D. 

Beautiful pansies, ye must know 

Your sacred mission here, 
For how could otherwise ye grow 

So sweet and full of cheer? 

Your watchful love we can't o'errate, 

As, lingering here in tears. 
Fond memory brings the precious weight 

Of friendship's golden years. 

Ye are the symbols, pure and sweet 

Of heartsease and of life. 
Through which our thought may dare re- 
treat 

From pain and death so rife, 

To realms of light and peace above. 

From earth's aPoy set free, 
Wherein abide immortal love 

And deathless ministry. 

125 



But still, while we your comfort seek, 
Our hearts will wildly yearn 

To hear once more the loved one speak, 
Once more the form discern. 

At Woodlawn Cemetery, May, 1886. 



IN MEMORIAM 
(Hon. Riifus S. Frost.) 

The heart so true to city, home and friend, 

Has ceased to beat ; 

No more we greet 
Tlie form that graced occasions to the end. 

Hushed is the voice that sent its hope and cheer 

To hearts in need ; 

That sowed the seed 
Of temperance, progress, woman's wider sphere. 

The brain that planned the good of foe or friend 

Is still in death. 

At last it saith, 
'Take up my work ; continue to the end." 

The legacy of such a life shines through 

The sorrowing hour — , 

A restful power 

To make all future life more blest and true. 

Chelsea, Mass., 1894. 



126 



TO C. H. F. 

(Upon receiving a twig of green from the grave 
of Helen Hunt Jackson, October, 1888.) 

With reverent touch and grateful heart, 

Dear thoughtful friend, 
I hold this precious bit of green 

You kindly send 
From Cheyenne's holy, lonely grave, 

Where pilgrims tend. 

It touches springs of tenderest life 

Inspired by her. 
Who, child of poetry and ease, 

Did not demur 
From sacrificing all to be 

Wrong's arbiter. 

That rare mosaic it suggests 

Made by the hand 
Of those who seek this favored spot 

In chosen land. 
Where, oft in life, she penned her soul 

At Truth's command. 

'Tis true, she wished no monument 

To mark the place ; 
But must she not be satisfied 

To see the space 
Thus blessed and open to the heart 

Of every race? 

O brain of power and heart of fire, 

America's pride. 
No wonder that the mountain height, 

Above sin's tide, 

127 



Was chosen as the resting p'ace 
With death to hide ; 

For such could give the needed rest 

On earth denied, 
Could satisfy the poet's thought, 

Unsatisfied, 
And symbolize the soul's true rest 

When glorified. 



I. 

A BIRTHDAY REMEMBRANCE 
To F. D. L., September 26, 1887. 

Time brings to thee from out his storehouse old, 
Another year which graciously awaits 
Thy fair soul's bidding, as it estimates 

The wealth the parting year has left untold. 

Clothed in chameleon garments which enfold 
The fresh new days thine eye ne'er underates, 
It brings continued hope of life that dates 

Our finest being. Thou its secrets hold! 

Are not such birthdays restful stepping-stones 
To aid the growing soul pick out the way 

To life eternal ? Not earth's bitterest moans. 
Or wildest joys can man's true progress stay, 

If, in these pauses, he but hear the tones 
Of immortality's soothing, deathless lay. 

128 



11. 

A HEAVENLY REMEMBRANCE 

October 29, 1891. 

And now to her has come 

The soothing, deathless boon 

Of ImmortaHty. 

At last the stepping-stones 

Of her large, growing soul 

— Heir of Eternity — 

Have led to Heaven's door, — 

And in the hush and joy 

Of perfect liberty, 

She meets the blest new life. 

As this one here, with love 

And sweet serenity. 

Lo! she its secret holds! 
While we in patience wait 
In Faith's security. 



A RALLY HYMN.* 

Dedicated to President Francis E. Clark, of the 
Society of United Christian Endeavor. 

The saints of all the ages have pioneered our way, 
And we, as loving comrades, are on the field to 

stay. 
For us no song of battle, no lost or wasted day, 
*Set to music by Willard Gould Harding. 
129 



With Christ as our great Captain, we watch and 
work and pray. 

On field of peace we rally, 
Through love to perfect light ; 
"Endeavor" is our watchword, 
Endeavor for the right. 

Our eager eyes already see fruits that He forsaw, 
A unity of action in hannony with law, — 
The law he gladly followed without mistake or 

flaw. 
Our victory comes from loving, and not from 

hate or war. 

On field of peace we rally, 
Through love to perfect light ; 
"Endeavor" is our watchword. 
Endeavor for the right. 

Our loyal hearts are beating to work of every 

sphere 
Which calls to finer issues, needs love, and hope 

and cheer 
Illumined by His presence, how can we doubt or 

fear, 
Or fail to reach the glory of highest living here ? 

On field of peace we rally, 
Through love to perfect light ; 
"Endeavor" is our watchword, 
Endeavor for the right. 



130 



FORGET NOT THE MOAN 
(For Dewey Day, October, 1899.) 

The heart of the Nation is throbbing and beating 

With joy and with praise 
For the hero who conquered, who knew no re- 
treating 

Those stirring May days ; 
And in the wild glory each heart is repeating 

''God bless him always." 
But in the wild glory there lingers the story 

That saddens and pains, 
Where the spectre starvation — a curse to a Na- 
tion — 

So cruelly reigns. 

O brothers and sisters 

Forget not the moan 
Of these brave hidden heroes 

Who struggle alone. 
Our Admiral hears it — 
His human heart fears it ; 

'Tis the only alloy 

In his present deep joy. 
O brothers and sisters, 

Forget not the moan — 
Remember, remember. 

For war to atone! 



131 



VI 
SOME IMPROMPTUS 



To "Our Lady and her Cherubs" upon com- 
ing to Gray Gables in June, 1900. 

May the Summer, hke June's lovely roses. 
Reveal what each glad heart supposes — 

An elixir divine 

From Beauty's fair shrine ! 
Yea, more ; 

A radiant light 

From Apollo's pure height! 

So shall Beauty and Wisdom unite. 
In making each day a delight, 
To our favored '*Grav Gables !" 



To Alice Freeman Palmer, in her summer 
home at Boxford, Mass. 

The Cardinal-flower has faded — 

The one you plucked for me 
From the ancient brook, on the honored farm 

Where the summer-life runs free ; 
But its spirit of old-red splendor, 

Its tale of a brooklet's roam, 
Lives on in memory's chamber, 

To honor both heart and home. 

Pinelands, Topsfield, August, 1898. 



A CHRISTMAS GREETING 

To Laura Lee, accompanying a picture of Ra- 
phael's St. Cecilia. 

To those of all the ages 
Who've heard the angels sing, 
I love to add our Laura — 

135 



She knows their offering. 
Then hears she not them singing 
'The Christ is King?" 
1898. 



To Dr. and Mrs. Charles F. Dowd, of Temple 
Grove, Saratoga Springs, for their Golden Wed- 
ding, October 6, 1902. 

Golden weddings are beacon-lights 

On Life's tempestuous sea. 
Not only to reflect the Past, 

But Love's eternity. 

This beacon-light of our dear friends. 

Becomes a national pride, 
Because reflecting Standard Time 

On every golden side. 



To Mrs. Costello C. Converse, for the concert 
program in behalf of the Maiden Day Nursery, 
April, 1900. 

Day nurseries are the gardens 

Where angels come to see 

The little ones made happy 

Through loving ministry. 

Thus Heaven lies near, as Wordsworth says, 

To bless their infancy. 



To Mr. and Mrs. John J. Enneking. 

''Sweet pea on tiptie for a flight" — 
Those that you brought last night. 
Are still proclaiming beauty's power. 
And echoing happy friendship's hour. 

May 14, 1903. 

136 



To Mrs. Thomas Mack. 

Out of pure, loving hearts spring the blessings 
of hfe, 

In a world of strife. 
To such come the visions of beauty and thought 

The ages have wrought. 
They know the blest secret of kindnesses shown, 
The seeds by the wayside so thoughtfully sown. 
To make the world richer to known and un- 
known. 

That is why we all love you 
Our wise and true friend, 

You scatter these blessings 
Without price, without end ! 

Boston, 1904. 



To F. B. G., on receiving a gift of coral for a. 
Thought I had sent her. 

I wear the pretty coral — 
It takes me to the land 
Where life is bright. 
And days invite, 
To wealth of beauty no one can withstand. 

And then it brings before me 
The love behind it all — 
By which I see 
She loveth me — • 
O happy link to friendship's loving call! 



137 



IN MEMORIAM 

F. B. G., January, 1904. 

"She was rich in loving," 
Is there anything better for one to say 
When the soul has flung its shell away 
And bounded to realms of endless day? 
Oh, no! 
Then shall we not say in the coming days, 
As we miss the kindly words and ways 
"She was rich in loving." 

Boston, Mass. 



To J. A. C. 

The depths of life, my dear one, 

Are only known to those 
Who, through the ways of darkness 

Find victory over foes. 

And with the heights of life, 'tis true, 

They only reach the goal 
Who in near sight of mountain tops 

Keep on with steadfast soul. 

The depths and heights I love to think 

Are known alike to you, 
For both in joy's and sorrow's reign 

You've to yourself been true. 



138 



VII 
CENTENNIAL POEMS 



MANCHESTER CENTENNIAL POEM 

Written for the 250th anniversary of my na- 
tive town, Manchester-by-the-Sea, Massachu- 
setts. 1895. 

For ages long, 

The waves had danced upon the shore, 

In sound of mighty ocean's roar 

And singing sand ; 

While from the land. 

The pines had moaned their song 

Unceasingly. 

Thus Nature free 

On land and sea 

Praised Love which gave her birth 

Among the powers of earth. 

Then out from heaven, 

A conscious spirit came to share 

The wondrous beauty, and to wear 

A crown so blest 

With freedom's crest. 

That it became the leaven 

Of liberty. 

And Indian free 

On land and sea, 

Praised Love which gave him birth 

Among the sons of earth. 

While here he ruled. 

The waves ceased not their dancing 

Upon their long loved shore; 

The sands responded singing. 

In spite of ocean's roar ; 

141 



And pines still rhymed in moaning 
A wealth of hidden lore. 

But all the wondrons glory 
Of land and sea and shore, 
The pride of Masconomo 
— A favorite Sagamore — 
Was not to be forever 
Confined to Indian lore. 



For ages long, 

The heart of man had sought the light 

Of freedom as its perfect right : 

Through varied form, 

'Midst stress and storm, 

Was heard the prophet's song 

Of victory. 

On Plymouth Rock, 

A brave and trusted few at last 

Found moorings from a troubled past. 

And, later, one, 

Brave Higginson, 

Came hither, with his flock ; 

His glad eyes saw 

On this wild shore, 

''Thick woods," a "harbor fayre and sweet," 

**Wild roses, strawberries to eat." — 

And the next year 

There sailed in here 

Another band who bore 

God's heraldry. 

By Winthrop led: 

With Dudley, Bradstreet, Saltonstall, 

142 



[What stirring scenes these names recall. 

And gentle souls 

Whom time enrolled 

As women born and bred 

To Liberty. 

The Lady fair, 

Was she for whom the ship was called, 

Arbella; the young wife Anne, extolled 

In latter days. 

With ardent praise. 

As noble mother, poet rare, 

The one "Tenth muse."^ 

And these souls free 

On land and sea, 

Praised love which gave them birth 

Among the minds of earth. 

While lingered they. 

The waves ceased not their dancing 

Upon the long-loved shore, 

The sands responded, singing. 

In spite of ocean's roar, 

And pines still moaned in rhyming 

Their wealth of hidden lore. 

And to this song of Nature 
The Indians added praise ; 
In wild and wondrous gladness, 
They watched the vessel's ways; 
And, ]ed by Masconomo, 
Prepared for coming days. 

Who can forget the story 
John Winthrop told that year. 
How "they were like as merry 

143 



With strawberries gathered here 
As were the Salem gentlefolks 
With venison and beer." 

And then that other picture 
Of Sunday in the bay, 
When, full of deep thanksgiving 
For guidance on the way 
They welcomed Masconomo 
To spend on ship the day ; 

While he and his companion 
Were welcomed with that grace 
Which brought out all their goodness 
And left of ill no trace. 
Ah, would that all the Indians 
Had so met our white race! 



The vessel sailed, 

And soon on Naumkeag's shore began 

A work — none greater done by man. 

Like ocean's life. 

Its restless strife 

A larger harbor hailed 

For life of all. 

Ten years went on. 

This land as ''Jeffries Creek" — so named 

From William Jeffrey, planter, famed 

In Agawam lands 

Where Ipswich stands — 

Was owned by men who shone 

As pioneers. 

They dared to strive ; 

To their wise plea for village here. 

144 



The General Court lent listening ear ; 

Till "Jeft'ries Creek" 

At last they seek 

(In sixteen forty-five) 

As '"Manchester." 

This new town free 

On land and sea, 

Praised love which gave it birth 

Among the towns of earth. 

And at its birth, 

The waves ceased not their dancing 

Upon the long-loved shore ; 

The sands responded singing. 

In spite of ocean's roar ; 

And pines still rhymed in moaning 

Their wealth of hidden lore. 



To Lawrence Leach and others, 
The Court the following year 
Gave orders "for a road built 
From Salem village here." 
Leach mountain on the "Plain" road 
Now marks this pioneer.'' 

Then down the busy ages 
The Aliens, Lees shine clear, 
With Bennett's, Hoopers, Tappans ; 
And Cheever — settled here 
As minister of the parish 
And town for many a year.^ 

When Captain Allen builded 
His large brick house in town,* 
Though not a leading churchman, 

145 



He gave it rare renown 
Of reverent dedication — 
Today it wears this crown. 

I well recall in childhood 

The story old dames told 

How through his invitation 

The people came to hold 

With song and prayer a service. 

Some thought it fine, some bold. 

'Twas in this faithful spirit 
The people felt their need 
Of having God to help them. 
They did his counsels heed. 
Old Eagle Head inspired 
To noble thought and deed. 

So passed the days. 

Smith's pasture was the child's delight. 

And ''Old Neck Beach" a loved birthright. 

The ocean's shore 

And all it bore 

Was to their simple ways 

An heritage. 

At last there came 

To find a restful summer place, 

And see more fully Nature's face, 

A poet-soul 

Who found his goal 

On what soon bore his name 

As "Dana Beach." 

Since then the cream 

Of social life, and those that hear 

The sounds above the common ear 

146 



Find blessed rest 

On Nature's breast, 

And help make summer seem 

A heaven on earth. 

The human heart 

Here feels poetic ebb and flow ; 

A wreck on reef of Norman's Woe 

Lives for the age 

On Longfellow's page ; 

And Holmes' and Whittier's art 

Fresh impulse felt. 

Li woods near by, 

— Old Essex — Aggasiz Rock has fame 

For both its rarity and name. 

While Club-house gay 

Fills summer day 

With gaities that vie 

Myopia. 

United thought 

Makes fair the town on every side. 

The work of Coolidge will abide. 

While honor yields 

To Sturgis, Fields, 

And others who have wrought 

For public good. 

So townsmen free 

On land and sea 

Praise love which gave them birth 

Among the b'est of earth. 

And while they praise, 

The waves cease not their dancing 

Upon the long-loved shore ; 

147 



The sands respond in singing, 
In spite of ocean's roar ; 
The summer pines are moaning 
Their wealth of hidden lore. 

And Nature still is loyal 
This anniversary day, 
She welcomes to her bosom, 
Decked in her bright array, 
The ladened ship, Arbella, 
As in the old-time way. 

The Indians and the heroes 
Who worked as pioneers — ■ 
Must they not feel the gladness 
Of these victorious years? 
For what is heaven but seeing 
The victories born of tears? 

And all the towns send greeting 
To Manchester-by-the-Sea — 
The pride of Essex County, 
The Queen of gaity. 
Where Elder Brethren gather 
In picnic jollity! 

We who in this fair region 
First opened mortal eyes. 
Though other places hold us 
And other duties rise, 
Love tenderly our birthplace 
And bless the sacred ties. 

Guests, citizens and natives 
Extend most heartfelt praise 
For honor, wealth and beauty 
Which this old town displays. 

148 



May freedom, love and progress 
Still guard its future days! 

And we all free 

On land and sea 

Praise love which gives us birth 

Among such towns of earth. 

July i8, 1895. 

Note i. — A direct ancestor on my father's side, 
through her son, John Bradstreet. 

Note 2. — Leach Mountain on the Plain belonged to 
my mother's people, the Leaches, until sold by them in 
1899. 

Note 3. — Rev. Ames Cheever, the grandson of Ezekiel 
Cheever the famous schoolmaster, was my mother's 
great-grandfather. 

Note 4. — My birthplace. 



149 



FRYEBURG CENTENNIAL POEM 

Written for the Centennial Celebration of Dan- 
iel Webster as a schoolmaster, held in Fryeburg, 
Maine, August 14, 1902 ; and preluded by the 
author — in its delivery — with some extempor- 
aneous words leading to the introductory lines of 
Webster. 

''Health to my friends ! began my earliest song, 
Health to my friends ! my latest shall prolong. 
Nor health alone — be four more blessings thine. 
Cash and the Fair One, Friendship and the Nine, 
Are these too little? Dost thou pant for fame? 
Give him, ye Powers, the bubble of a name ! 
Ask all of Heaven an honest man should dare, 
And Heaven will grant it, if it hear my prayer." 

Thus wrote a youth of twenty. 

In 1802. 
I think its worth our reading now, 

Don't you? 

And this was not the ending 

Of what he said that day ; 

This one of many rhymes he wrote, 

His say, 
On how the world did look to him. 
Whose eye of faith had not grown dim, 
Whose ear still heard the cherubim. 

I think 'twill give him honor. 

This 1902, 
To give a moment to it now — 

Don't you? 



iqo 



" 'Tis true, let Locke deny it to the last, 
Man has three beings — Present, Future, Past. 
We are, we were, we shall be ; this contains 
The field of all our pleasures and our pains. 
Enjoyment makes the present hour its own, 
And Hope looks forward into worlds unknown ; 
While backward turned, our thoughts incessant 

stray, 
And 'mid the fairy forms of memory play ; 
Say, does the present ill affect thee more 
Than that impending o'er a future hour? 
Or does this moment's blessing more delight 
Than hope's gay vision fluttering in thy sight? 
Call now the events of former years to view. 
And live in fancy all thy life anew, 
Do not the things that many years ago 
Gave woe or joy, now give thee joy or woe? 
In this review, as former times pass by. 
Dost thou not laugh again, or weep or sigh? 
Dost thou not change, as changing scenes ad- 
vance, 
Mourn with a friend, or frolic at the dance? 

With present time thus Hope and Memory join. 
This to bear back, and that to extend the line." 

Thus wrote our Daniel Webster 

In 1802. 
I think it's worth our hearing now — 

Don't you? 

This slender youth of twenty, 

So earnest and so wise. 
Who, when he lived here, some one called 

"All-Eyes," 
Did not forget to put in rhyme 



151 



The little school which took his time 

That Wisdom's hill his ''Zeke" might climb. 

He saw in this loved brother, 

A personality rare, 
Which he must bring at any cost. 

To share, 
The education he had won 
Through father-love to seeking son. 
Reward to him was in Well done. 

To be yet still more helpful, 
He wrote in his own hand 
Some County Deeds we see today. 

That stand, 
As monuments of labor spent 
In evenings which more oft are lent 
To friendship's cheer, or frolic's bent. 

Who can forget the story. 

As told in his own name. 
When later years had brought him wealth, 

And fame. 
How blest he was that day in spring, 
When his first earnings he did bring 
That ''Zeke" might Wisdom's anthems sing ! 

Three hundred fifty dollars 

Was salary for the year, 
With now and then a present given 

For cheer; 
But though the teaching was success. 
And added to his happiness. 
His vision soared. Hear what he says : 

"Six hours to yonder little dome a day. 
The rest to books, to friendship and my tea ; 

152 



And now and then, as varying fancies choose, 
To trifle with young Mary, or the Muse. 
This life, though pleasant of its kind, is yet 
Much too inactive ; I'm resolved to quit. 

God gave me pride. I thank Him ; if He choose 
To give me what shall make that pride of use — 
Chance and the talent — I'll adore His will ; 
If He deny them, I'll adore it still. 
Now Hope leans forward on Life's slender line, 
Shows me a doctor, lawyer, or divine. 
Ardent springs forward to the distant goal. 
But indecision clogs the eager soul." 

Thus wrote the Fryeburg teacher 

In 1802. 
I'm glad his soul was thus revealed — 

Aren't you? 

For in this revelation. 

Faith shows her blessed face. 
While Prophecy, with Doubt and Hope, 

Has place. 
For us to see today fulfilled 
In act and speech as lawyer willed. 
Or in Congressional halls instilled. 

But though this deep-souled nature 

Had not yet found its own. 
He walked these streets with joyful heart, 

Alone, 
Or with "Maine misses" fair and gay. 
Who joined him in the "baUs" and play. 
And felt his calm, majestic sway. 

But could they understand him, 
This serious, high-born youth, 

153 



In wonder oft as to life's way, 

In truth, 
One who could open school with prayer, 
And lift a soul profound to share 
The atmosphere of those who dare. 

His own deep joy in Nature, 
As he these hills did roam, 
Was tinged with thought of college life. 

Of home, 
Of worldly honor, gift and name 
Which in the after years became 
A hidden power for praise or blame. 

'Twas here his Alma mater, 
His Dartmouth life so rich. 
Became a temple of his mind. 

In which. 
Was held the fire to burst in flame 
In its own time, and make his name 
To rank with Dartmouth and her fame. 

'Twas here this youth of twenty, 

On Independence Day, 
Held in the little meeting-house 

Full sway. 
Expounding truth which not before 
Had come so near the nation's door. 
'Tis read today as classic lore. 

His plea for Constitution 
To which his thought did bow, 
For years did linger in the town. 

Till now. 
As "Great Expounder" of its laws, 
We claim him without price or flaws, 
Whenever we his name applause. 



154 



With Jefferson as President, 

And Washington at rest ; 
John Adams in his Quincy home 

Time-blest, 
How good to have a teacher say 
The thought we know as truth today, 
A hundred years cannot gainsay. 

For then, as now, a teacher, 

Was called to be a guide. 
To lift the soul to higher life. 

Or tide. 
The waves of feeling and of thought 
Which bound the shores of mind when fraught 
With depths of life, unknown, unsought. 

Thus taught our Daniel Webster 

In 1802. 
I think he's worth remembering here — 

Don't you? 

August 14, 1902. 



155 



JUL IB law 



^, 



,,L'BRARY OF CONGRESS 



015 897 455 1 ♦ 




